The fact is, matrimony is not in my line. I feel awfully old. The
governor is years younger than I am. Whoever saw _me_ trouble _my_
long legs and back to perform such a bow as he gave you just now? I
wish he'd leave me in peace with Sweep. Since the day I came of age,
when every old farmer in the place wound up his speech with something
about the future Mrs. Reginald Dacre, I've had no quiet of my life for
her. Clerke too! I really did think Clerke was a confirmed old
bachelor, on ecclesiastical grounds. I wish I'd gone fishing to
Norway. I wish a bit of the house would fall down. If the governor
were busy with real brick and mortar, he wouldn't build so many
castles in the air, perhaps."
As I growled, Sweep, beneath my feet, growled also. I believe it was
sympathy, but lest it should be the approach of Aunt Maria (whom Sweep
detested), Polly and I thought well to withdraw from the garden by
another gate. We returned to the house, and I took her to my den to
find a book to divert her thoughts. I was not surprised that a long
search ended in her choosing a finely-bound copy of Young's "Night
Thoughts."
"I often feel ashamed of knowing so little of our standard poets," she
remarked parenthetically.
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