'Always remember your cousin Monica is
an outspoken, wicked old fool, who likes you, and never be offended by her
nonsense. A council of three--you all sat upon it--Mrs. Rusk, you said, and
Mary Quince, and your wise self, the weird sisters; and Austin stepped in,
as Macbeth, and said, 'What is't ye do?' you all made answer together, 'A
something or other without a name!' Now, seriously, my dear, it is quite
unpardonable in Austin--your papa, I mean--to hand you over to be robed and
bedizened according to the whimsies of these wild old women--aren't they
old? If they know better, it's positively _fiendish._ I'll blow him up--I
will indeed, my dear. You know you're an heiress, and ought not to appear
like a jack-pudding.'
'Papa intends sending me to London with Madame and Mary Quince, and going
with me himself, if Doctor Bryerly says he may make the journey, and then I
am to have dresses and everything.'
'Well, that is better. And who is Doctor Bryerly--is your papa ill?'
'Ill; oh no; he always seems just the same. You don't think him
ill-_looking_ ill, I mean?' I asked eagerly and frightened.
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