I like him rather, don't you? He's getting a bit fat, of course, but
he's got nice eyes, and then he's a real man. I like real men. But
there, you'll be thinking me coarse, I know you will. I'm not coarse
really, only impulsive. You don't like me, honestly, if it were
known. Oh no! you don't! I can tell. I always know. But I don't
care--I love you. You're a darling--and what I say is if you love
some one, just love them. Never mind what they think. Don't you
agree with me? But you wouldn't. You wouldn't think of loving
anybody. But I'm not really bad--only careless, Mother says--"
What Mother said could not be known, because the door opened and
Martha announced Mr. Crashaw. The old man, leaning on a walking
stick, came forward and greeted Maggie and Caroline with good-temper
and amiability. He was indeed in day-time a very mild old man, and
it was difficult for Maggie to believe that this was the same who
last night had frightened her out of her wits and led her to the
edge of such strange suspicions. He was more than ever like a
monkey, with his bony brown forehead, protuberant eyes and large
mottled nose, and he sat there all huddled up by his rheumatism, a
living example of present physical torments rather than future
spiritual ones.
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