"If there is anything you would like to say to me, you know you must
not hesitate. You needn't feel obliged to be so quiet. I shouldn't
care that Mr. Townsend should be a frequent topic of conversation,
but whenever you have anything particular to say about him I shall be
very glad to hear it."
"Thank you," said Catherine; "I have nothing particular at present."
He never asked her whether she had seen Morris again, because he was
sure that if this had been the case she would tell him. She had, in
fact, not seen him, she had only written him a long letter. The
letter at least was long for her; and, it may be added, that it was
long for Morris; it consisted of five pages, in a remarkably neat and
handsome hand. Catherine's handwriting was beautiful, and she was
even a little proud of it; she was extremely fond of copying, and
possessed volumes of extracts which testified to this accomplishment;
volumes which she had exhibited one day to her lover, when the bliss
of feeling that she was important in his eyes was exceptionally keen.
She told Morris in writing that her father had expressed the wish
that she should not see him again, and that she begged he would not
come to the house until she should have "made up her mind." Morris
replied with a passionate epistle, in which he asked to what, in
Heaven's name, she wished to make up her mind. Had not her mind been
made up two weeks before, and could it be possible that she
entertained the idea of throwing him off? Did she mean to break down
at the very beginning of their ordeal, after all the promises of
fidelity she had both given and extracted? And he gave an account of
his own interview with her father--an account not identical at all
points with that offered in these pages.
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