I fancy
that we deserve sorrow."
She looked at the books again--black, brown, and that acrid
theological blue. They surrounded the visitors on every side;
they were piled on the tables, they pressed against the very
ceiling. To Lucy who could not see that Mr. Emerson was
profoundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebe chiefly by his
acknowledgment of passion--it seemed dreadful that the old man
should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be
dependent on the bounty of a clergyman.
More certain than ever that she was tired, he offered her his
chair.
"No, please sit still. I think I will sit in the carriage."
"Miss Honeychurch, you do sound tired."
"Not a bit," said Lucy, with trembling lips.
"But you are, and there's a look of George about you. And what
were you saying about going abroad?"
She was silent.
"Greece"--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--
"Greece; but you were to be married this year, I thought."
"Not till January, it wasn't," said Lucy, clasping her hands.
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