I think
at the bottom of our submission to destiny lurked a hope that Uncle Silas,
the inexorable, would relent, or that Cousin Monica, that siren, would win
and melt him to her purpose.
Whatever comfort, however, I derived from the absence of Dudley was not to
be of very long duration; for one morning, as I was amusing myself alone,
with a piece of worsted work, thinking, and just at that moment not
unpleasantly, of many things, my cousin Dudley entered the room.
'Back again, like a bad halfpenny, ye see. And how a' ye bin ever since,
lass? Purely, I warrant, be your looks. I'm jolly glad to see ye, I am; no
cattle going like ye, Maud.'
'I think I must ask you to let go my hand, as I can't continue my work,' I
said, very stiffly, hoping to chill his enthusiasm a little.
'Anything to pleasure ye, Maud, 'tain't in my heart to refuse ye nout. I
a'bin to Wolverhampton, lass--jolly row there--and run over to Leamington;
a'most broke my neck, faith, wi' a borrowed horse arter the dogs; ye would
na care, Maud, if I broke my neck, would ye? Well, 'appen, jest a little,'
he good-naturedly supplied, as I was silent.
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