You see, she was so very
full of her intentions, of her prospects. She had read somewhere
that the perfect letter to one absent from home was a letter stuffed
with home gossip,--who had been seen and who was doing what, and
what had been had for dinner yesterday and whence obtained. But she
did not subscribe to that view. She was from home and her mother's
letters were minutest record of the home life; but she began to
skip those portions to read "afterwards." One day the usual letter
was there at breakfast and she put it away unopened so as to have
"a really good, jolly read" of it "afterwards." In a little after
that she got the habit of always, and for the same reason (she told
herself) keeping the letters till the evening. One day she gave the
slightest possible twitch of her brows at seeing the very, very
familiar handwriting. She had had a letter only the previous day
and two running was not expected: more than that, this previous
letter had slightly vexed her by its iteration of the longing to
see her and by very many closely written lines of various little
troubles. She was a little impatient at the idea of a further edition
of it so soon. She forgot to open it that night. She remembered
it when she was in bed; but she was in bed then... When, next day,
she read the letter it was, again, an iteration of the longing to
see her and, again, more, much more, of the little troubles: the
residue was of the gossipy gossip that Rosalie already had formed
the habit of skipping till "afterwards.
Pages:
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153