Lord Dumbello, in the meantime, stood by, observant, thinking to
himself that Lord Lufton was a glib-tongued, empty-headed ass, and
reflecting that if his rival were to break the tendons of his leg in
one of those rapid evolutions, or suddenly come by any other dreadful
misfortune, such as the loss of all his property, absolute blindness,
or chronic lumbago, it would only serve him right. And in that frame
of mind he went to bed, in spite of the prayer which no doubt he said
as to his forgiveness of other people's trespasses. And then, when
they were again standing, Lord Lufton, in the little intervals
between his violent gasps for fresh breath, asked Griselda if she
liked London. "Pretty well," said Griselda, gasping also a little
herself.
"I am afraid--you were very dull--down at Framley."
"Oh, no;--I liked it particularly."
"It was a great bore when you went--away, I know. There wasn't a
soul--about the house worth speaking to." And they remained silent
for a minute till their lungs had become quiescent.
"Not a soul," he continued--not of falsehood prepense, for he was not
in fact thinking of what he was saying. It did not occur to him at
the moment that he had truly found Griselda's going a great relief,
and that he had been able to do more in the way of conversation with
Lucy Robarts in one hour than with Miss Grantly during a month of
intercourse in the same house.
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