There a pile of
letters reached him, among which he found one marked 'Private',
and addressed in a hand which he did not recognise. This he opened
suddenly,--with a conviction that it would contain a thorn,--and,
turning over the page found the signature to be 'Francis Tregear'.
The man's name was wormwood to him. He at once felt that he would
wish to have his dinner, his fragment brought to him in that
solitary room, and that he might remain secluded for the rest of
the evening. But still he must read the letter,--and he read it.
'MY DEAR LORD DUKE,
'If my mode of addressing your Grace be too familiar I hope you
will excuse it. It seems to me that if I were to use one more
distant, I should myself be detracting something from my right to
make the claim which I intend to put forward. You know what my
feelings are in reference to your daughter. I do not pretend to
suppose that they should have the least weight with you. But you
know also what her feelings are for me. A man seems to be vain
when he expresses his conviction of a woman's love for himself.
Pages:
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681