Last year we met again--on the same terms as before. The same weary appeal,
and the same curt answers from my lips. At least I would make her see how
wholly wrong and hopeless were her attempts at resuming the old relationship.
As the season wore on, we fell apart--that is to say, she found it difficult
to meet me, for I had other and more absorbing interests to attend to. When I
think it over quietly in my sick-room, the season of 1884 seems a confused
nightmare wherein light and shade were fantastically intermingled--my
courtship of little Kitty Mannering; my hopes, doubts, and fears; our long
rides together; my trembling avowal of attachment; her reply; and now and
again a vision of a white face flitting by in the 'rickshaw with the black and
white liveries I once watched for so earnestly; the wave of Mrs. Wessington's
gloved hand; and, when she met me alone, which was but seldom, the irksome
monotony of her appeal. I loved Kitty Mannering; honestly, heartily loved her,
and with my love for her grew my hatred for Agnes. In August Kitty and I were
engaged. The next day I met those accursed "magpie" jhampanies at the back of
Jakko, and, moved by some passing sentiment of pity, stopped to tell Mrs.
Wessington everything.
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