I simply asked. It seemed natural to ask what you
thought."
"It's what I feel that matters. And I can't help my feelings. You may
guess," she added in a softer tone, "that my feelings are mostly
concerned with my brother. We were very fond of each other. The
difference of our ages was not very great. I suppose you know he is a
little younger than I am. He was a sensitive boy. He had the habit of
brooding. It is no use concealing from you that neither of us was happy
at home. You have heard, no doubt . . . Yes? Well, I was made still
more unhappy and hurt--I don't mind telling you that. He made his way to
some distant relations of our mother's people who I believe were not
known to my father at all. I don't wish to judge their action."
I interrupted Mrs. Fyne here. I had heard. Fyne was not very
communicative in general, but he was proud of his father-in-law--"Carleon
Anthony, the poet, you know." Proud of his celebrity without approving
of his character. It was on that account, I strongly suspect, that he
seized with avidity upon the theory of poetical genius being allied to
madness, which he got hold of in some idiotic book everybody was reading
a few years ago.
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