I don't blame her for it any more than I blame her for
a love of radishes, which make me ill; it is not as if she had no
wholesome tastes. On the contrary, I commend her. Now,
Willoughby, it seems, has found the public appetite so great for
these thought-saving boluses of knowledge--unpleasant drugs, as
it were, put up into gelatine capsules--that he needs assistance.
He has asked Judith to devil for him, and I have to-day persuaded
her to accept his offer. It will be an excellent thing for the
dear woman. It will be an absorbing occupation. It will divert
the current of her thoughts from the sentimentality that I
deprecate, and provided she does not serve up hard-boiled facts to
me at dinner, she will be the pleasanter companion.
The only return to it was when I kissed her at parting.
"That is the first, Marcus, for twelve hours," she said; very
sweetly, it is true--but still reproachfully.
But Sacred Name of a Little Good Man! (as the depraved French
people say), what is the use of this continuous osculation
between rational beings of opposite sexes who set out to enjoy
themselves? If only St.
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