Crashaw, a word about the
Lyceum Theatre, where some one was playing the Merchant of Venice,
which was a fine play and could do no one any harm.
"But I daresay," said Mr. Crashaw, "that this young lady here goes
to nothing but plays every night of her life."
"Why, Mr. Crashaw," said Caroline, tossing her head. "If that's the
kind of life you fancy I lead you're completely mistaken. Theatres
indeed! Never do I put so much as the tip of my nose inside one.
Father thinks they're wrong and so does Mother say she does,
although I know she likes them, really; but any way that doesn't
matter because I never have a moment to myself--sitting at home
sewing, that's the way I spend my days, Mr. Crashaw."
It was the very last way she really spent them, as Maggie perfectly
well knew. It is not to be supposed that Mr. Crashaw either was
deceived. However, he gave a wicked wink with the eye that was least
rheumatic and said something about "a beautiful young lady like Miss
Smith wasted on sewing and darning," and Caroline smiled and said
something about "one day perhaps"--and Aunt Anne looked remotely
benevolent.
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