d she looked and spoke--the little Polly of Bretton--petulant,
sensitive.

"If," said she, emphatically, "if I liked Dr. John till I was fit to
die for liking him, that alone could not license me to be otherwise
than dumb--dumb as the grave--dumb as you, Lucy Snowe--you know it--and
you know you would despise me if I failed in self-control, and whined
about some rickety liking that was all on my side."

"It is true I little respect women or girls who are loquacious either
in boasting the triumphs, or bemoaning the mortifications, of feelings.
But as to you, Paulina, speak, for I earnestly wish to hear you. Tell
me all it will give you pleasure or relief to tell: I ask no more."

"Do you care for me, Lucy?"

"Yes, I do, Paulina."

"And I love you. I had an odd content in being with you even when I was
a little, troublesome, disobedient girl; it was charming to me then to
lavish on you my naughtiness and whims. Now you are acceptable to me,
and I like to talk with and trust you. So listen, Lucy."

And she settled herself, resting against my arm--resting gently, not
with honest Mistress Fanshawe's fatiguing and selfish weight.

"A few minutes since you asked whether we had not heard from Graham
during our absence, and I said there were two letters for papa on
business; this was true, but I did not tell you all."

"You evaded?"

"I shuffled and equivocated, you know. However, I am going to speak the
truth now; it is getting darker; one can talk at one's ease. Papa often
lets me open the letter-bag and give him out the contents. One morning,
about three weeks ago, you don't know how surprised I was to find,
amongst a dozen letters for M. de Bassompierre, a note addressed to
Miss de Bassompierre. I spied it at once, amidst all the rest; the
handwriting was not strange; it attracted me directly. I was going to
say, 'Papa, here is another letter from Dr. Bretton;' but the 'Miss'
struck me mute. I actually never received a letter from a gentleman
before. Ought I to have shown it to papa, and let him open it and read
it first? I could not for my life, Lucy. I know so well papa's ideas
about me: he forgets my age; he thinks I am a mere school-girl; he is
not aware that other people see I am grown up as tall as I shall be;
so, with a curious mixture of feelings, some of them self-reproachful,
and some so fluttering and strong, I cannot describe them, I gave papa
his twelve letters--his herd of possessions--and kept back m