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every word, look, and gesture, which were really captivating. She
would say, "I am excessively attached to another, and yet I take
such delight in being near you! When I am not in HIS company, I
like being nowhere so well as here." (Here was another compliment.)
"And don't you know why?" inquired I.
"I do not."
"I will tell you, then. It is because I permit you to talk about
your lover."
"That is a good guess; yet still I think it is a good deal because I
esteem you so very much!"
Poor girl! along with this pretty frankness she had that blessed sin
of taking me always by the hand, and pressing it with all her heart,
not perceiving that she at once pleased and disconcerted me by her
affectionate manner. Thanks be to Heaven, that I can always recall
this excellent little girl to mind without the least tinge of
remorse.
CHAPTER XXX.
The following portion of my narrative would assuredly have been more
interesting had the gentle Angiola fallen in love with me, or if I
had at least run half mad to enliven my solitude. There was,
however, another sentiment, that of simple benevolence, no less dear
to me, which united our hearts in one. And if, at any moment, I
felt there was the least risk of its changing its nature in my vain,
weak heart, it produced only sincere regret.
Once, certainly, having my doubts that this would happen, and
finding her, to my sorrow, a hundred times more beautiful than I had
at first imagined; feeling too so very melancholy when she was
absent, so joyous when near, I took upon myself to play the
UNAMIABLE, in the idea that this would remove all danger by making
her leave off the same affectionate and familiar manner. This
innocent stratagem was tried in vain; the poor girl was so patient,
so full of compassion for me. She would look at me in silence, with
her elbow resting upon the window, and say, after a long pause, "I
see, sir, you are tired of my company, yet _I_ would stay here the
whole day if I could, merely to keep the hours from hanging so heavy
upon you. This ill-humour of yours is the natural effect of your
long solitude; if you were able to chat awhile, you would be quite
well again. If you don't like to talk, I will talk for you."
"About your lover, eh?"
"No, no; not always about him; I can talk of many things."
She then began to give me some extracts from the household annals,
dwelling upon the sharp temper of her mother, her good-natured
father, and the monkey-tricks of her little brothers; and she told
all this with a simple grace and innocent frankness not a little
alluring. Yet I was pretty near the truth; for, without being aware
of it, she uniformly concluded with the one favourite theme: her
ill-starred love. Still I went on acting the part of the UNAMIABLE,
in the hope that she would take a spite against me. But whether
from inadvertency or design, she would not take the hint, and I was
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