It is impossible for me to explain how it was that she and I never
married. We two knew exceedingly well, and that must suffice for the
reader. There was the most perfect sympathy and understanding between
us; we knew that neither of us would marry anyone else. I had asked her
to marry me a dozen times over; having said this much I will say no more
upon a point which is in no way necessary for the development of my
story. For the last few years there had been difficulties in the way of
our meeting, and I had not seen her, though, as I have said, keeping up a
close correspondence with her. Naturally I was overjoyed to meet her
again; she was now just thirty years old, but I thought she looked
handsomer than ever.
Her father, of course, was the lion of the party, but seeing that we were
all meek and quite willing to be eaten, he roared to us rather than at
us. It was a fine sight to see him tucking his napkin under his rosy old
gills, and letting it fall over his capacious waistcoat while the high
light from the chandelier danced about the bump of benevolence on his
bald old head like a star of Bethlehem.
The soup was real turtle; the old gentleman was evidently well pleased
and he was beginning to come out.
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