The feeling began and ended in
reckless, vindictive, hopeless hatred of the man who was to marry
her.
"If we are to find out anything," I said, speaking under the new
influence which was now directing me, "we had better not let
another minute slip by us unemployed. I can only suggest, once
more, the propriety of questioning the gardener a second time, and
of inquiring in the village immediately afterwards."
"I think I may be of help to you in both cases," said Miss
Halcombe, rising. "Let us go, Mr. Hartright, at once, and do the
best we can together."
I had the door in my hand to open it for her--but I stopped, on a
sudden, to ask an important question before we set forth.
"One of the paragraphs of the anonymous letter," I said, "contains
some sentences of minute personal description. Sir Percival
Glyde's name is not mentioned, I know--but does that description
at all resemble him?"
"Accurately--even in stating his age to be forty-five----"
Forty-five; and she was not yet twenty-one! Men of his age married
wives of her age every day--and experience had shown those
marriages to be often the happiest ones. I knew that--and yet
even the mention of his age, when I contrasted it with hers, added
to my blind hatred and distrust of him.
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