She admired and rather pitied him, and she was unfeignedly grateful to him. And if he won’t—” But she did not give even unspoken words to the alternative at that time. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. You see, the trouble is that the matter is in dispute. Afterward she wanted to get her letter to her father back in order to read it over again, and, if it tallied with her general impression of it, re-write it. Nuns, I mean.
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