And then
he talked rather volubly. First of all his wife had not given him to
read the letter received from Flora (I had suspected him of having it in
his pocket), but had told him all about the contents. It was not at all
what it should have been even if the girl had wished to affirm her right
to disregard the feelings of all the world. Her own had been trampled in
the dirt out of all shape. Extraordinary thing to say--I would admit,
for a young girl of her age. The whole tone of that letter was wrong,
quite wrong. It was certainly not the product of a--say, of a
well-balanced mind.
"If she were given some sort of footing in this world," I said, "if only
no bigger than the palm of my hand, she would probably learn to keep a
better balance."
Fyne ignored this little remark. His wife, he said, was not the sort of
person to be addressed mockingly on a serious subject. There was an
unpleasant strain of levity in that letter, extending even to the
references to Captain Anthony himself. Such a disposition was enough,
his wife had pointed out to him, to alarm one for the future, had all the
circumstances of that preposterous project been as satisfactory as in
fact they were not.
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