He had a sweet, light tenor voice, and when he had
finished every one made some exclamation--every one, that is, save
Catherine, who remained intensely silent. Mrs. Penniman declared
that his manner of singing was "most artistic," and Dr. Sloper said
it was "very taking--very taking indeed"; speaking loudly and
distinctly, but with a certain dryness.
"He doesn't like me--he doesn't like me at all," said Morris
Townsend, addressing the aunt in the same manner as he had done the
niece. "He thinks I'm all wrong."
Unlike her niece, Mrs. Penniman asked for no explanation. She only
smiled very sweetly, as if she understood everything; and, unlike
Catherine too, she made no attempt to contradict him. "Pray, what
does it matter?" she murmured softly.
"Ah, you say the right thing!" said Morris, greatly to the
gratification of Mrs. Penniman, who prided herself on always saying
the right thing.
The Doctor, the next time he saw his sister Elizabeth, let her know
that he had made the acquaintance of Lavinia's protege.
"Physically," he said, "he's uncommonly well set up. As an
anatomist, it is really a pleasure to me to see such a beautiful
structure; although, if people were all like him, I suppose there
would be very little need for doctors."
"Don't you see anything in people but their bones?" Mrs. Almond
rejoined. "What do you think of him as a father?"
"As a father? Thank Heaven I am not his father!"
"No; but you are Catherine's.
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