I would
make them tell their own story--I would make them cry to Heaven for
swift death and oblivion before the last degradation of being pinned on
to the flaunting dress." And then again he said: "No, I don't suppose
there's any thing in it; but I'll tell you what made me think of it.
This morning, as we were coming back from Winstead church--you know how
extraordinarily mild it has been of late, and the lane going down to the
church is very well sheltered--I found a couple of violets in at the
roots of the hedge--within a few inches of each other, indeed--and I
gave them to Miss Francie, and she put them in her prayer-book and
carried them home. I thought the violets would not object to that, if
they only knew."
"So you went down to Winstead this morning?"
"Yes."
"And how are the old people?"
"Oh, very well."
"And Francie?"
"Very busy--and very happy, I think. If she doesn't deserve to be, who
does?" he continued, rousing himself somewhat from his absent manner. "I
suppose, now, there is no absolutely faultless woman; and yet I
sometimes think it would puzzle the most fastidious critic of human
nature to point out any one particular in which Miss Francie could be
finer than she is; I think it would.
Pages:
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485