I don't think it was
right," Catherine said.
"I was so sorry for him--it seemed to me some one ought to see him."
"No one but I," said Catherine, who felt as if she were making the
most presumptuous speech of her life, and yet at the same time had an
instinct that she was right in doing so.
"But you wouldn't, my dear," Aunt Lavinia rejoined; "and I didn't
know what might have become of him."
"I have not seen him, because my father has forbidden it," Catherine
said very simply.
There was a simplicity in this, indeed, which fairly vexed Mrs.
Penniman. "If your father forbade you to go to sleep, I suppose you
would keep awake!" she commented.
Catherine looked at her. "I don't understand you. You seem to be
very strange."
"Well, my dear, you will understand me some day!" And Mrs. Penniman,
who was reading the evening paper, which she perused daily from the
first line to the last, resumed her occupation. She wrapped herself
in silence; she was determined Catherine should ask her for an
account of her interview with Morris. But Catherine was silent for
so long, that she almost lost patience; and she was on the point of
remarking to her that she was very heartless, when the girl at last
spoke.
"What did he say?" she asked.
"He said he is ready to marry you any day, in spite of everything."
Catherine made no answer to this, and Mrs. Penniman almost lost
patience again; owing to which she at last volunteered the
information that Morris looked very handsome, but terribly haggard.
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