hidden from the windows of the house and secure from the sudden appearance of any one, she resumed the reading of Mr. Manning's letter.
Mr. Manning's handwriting had an air of being clear without being easily legible; it was large and rather roundish, with a lack of definition about the letters and a disposition to treat the large ones as liberal-minded people nowadays treat opinions, as all amounting to the same thing really--a years-smoothed boyish rather than an adult hand. And it filled seven sheets of notepaper, each written only on one side.
"MY DEAR MISS STANLEY," it began,--"I hope you will forgive my
bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much
over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy's, and I feel there are
things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we
meet again. It is the worst of talk under such social
circumstances that it is always getting cut off so soon as it is
beginning; and I went home that afternoon feeling I had said
nothing--literally nothing--of the things I had meant to say to
you and that were coursing through my head. They were things I
had meant very much to talk to you about, so that I went home
vexed and disappointed, and only relieved myself a little by
writing a few verses. I wonder if you will mind very much when I
tell you they were suggested by you. You must forgive the poet's
license I take. Here is one verse. The metrical irregularity is
intentional, because I want, as it were, to put you apart: to
change the lilt and the mood altogether when I speak of you.
