And
now, for a few hours at least, let us think of something else. I rather
like that Doctor Bryerly. I could not get him to say what I wanted. I don't
think he's Scotch, but he is very cautious, and I am sure, though he would
not say so, that he thinks of the matter exactly as I do. He says that
those fine people, who are named as his co-trustees, won't take any
trouble, and will leave everything to him, and I am sure he is right. So
we must not quarrel with him, Maud, nor call him hard names, although
he certainly is intolerably vulgar and ugly, and at times very nearly
impertinent--I suppose without knowing, or indeed very much caring.'
We had a good deal to think of, and talked incessantly. There were bursts
and interruptions of grief, and my kind cousin's consolations. I have
often since been so lectured for giving way to grief, that I wonder at the
patience exercised by her during this irksome visit. Then there was some
reading of that book whose claims are always felt in the terrible days of
affliction. After that we had a walk in the yew garden, that quaint little
cloistered quadrangle--the most solemn, sad, and antiquated of gardens.
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