—Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. “You’re just a boy! You grow moody and spellbound, John, and the next moment you are ecstatic. Do you know of what I speak?” “I do, I do!” She said. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains.
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