"Churches shouldn't be pretty--they should at least be fifty years
old and mellowed into beauty. New churches are an abomination."
"Did you see Peter Wright in church?" asked Louisa. She had been
bursting to ask it.
Nancy nodded.
"Verily, yes. He sat right across from me in the corner pew.
I didn't think him painfully changed. Iron-gray hair becomes him.
But I was horribly disappointed in myself. I had expected
to feel at least a romantic thrill, but all I felt was a
comfortable interest, such as I might have taken in any old friend.
Do my utmost, Louisa, I couldn't compass a thrill."
"Did he come to speak to you?" asked Louisa, who hadn't any idea
what Nancy meant by her thrills.
"Alas, no. It wasn't my fault. I stood at the door outside
with the most amiable expression I could assume, but Peter
merely sauntered away without a glance in my direction.
It would be some comfort to my vanity if I could believe it was on
account of rankling spite or pride. But the honest truth, dear Weezy,
is that it looked to me exactly as if he never thought of it.
He was more interested in talking about the hay crop with Oliver Sloane--
who, by the way, is more Oliver Sloaneish than ever.
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