JULIA BRIDE
splashed, in her beautiful clothes, among the frightened swans, rather than invite him to that ineptitude. Oh, her sincerity, Mary Lindeck's—she would be drenched with her sincerity, and she would be drenched, yes, with his; so that, from inward convulsion to convulsion, she had, before they reached their gate, pulled up in the path. There was something her head had been full of these three or four minutes, the intensest little tune of the music-box, and it had made its way to her lips now; belonging—for all the good it could do her!—to the two or three sorts of solicitude she might properly express.
"I hope she has a fortune, if you don't mind my speaking of it: I mean some of the money we didn't in our time have—and that we missed, after all, in our poor way and for what we then wanted of it, so quite dreadfully."
She had been able to wreathe it in a grace quite equal to any he himself had employed; and it was to be said for him also that he
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