His hand shook so violently that he dropped the handkerchief; and he let it lie on the floor because he dared not stoop. In this letter, which is addressed to my ill-fated mother, he speaks of his friendship for Sir Rowland, whom it seems he had known abroad; but entreats her to keep the marriage secret for a time, for reasons which are not fully developed. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. She listened, her suspicions confirmed. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. You dear, dear girl. Because I’m younger than you. She wished her father and aunt would not enjoy their dinner with such quiet determination. From the first I could see that neither believed my story.
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