Vera had known it
all. Many men had courted her; one or two had loved her dearly, but she
had not loved them. Amongst them all, indeed, there had been never one
whom she had liked with such a sincere affection as she now felt for this
man, who seemed to love her so much, and who wrote to her so diffidently,
and yet so devotedly.
"I love him as well as I am ever likely to love any one," said Vera, to
herself. Yet still she leant her chin upon her hand and looked out of the
window at the gray bare branches of the elm-trees across the damp green
lawn, and still her letter was unwritten.
"Vera!" cries Marion, coming in hurriedly and breaking in upon her
reverie, "the footman from Kynaston is waiting all this time to know if
there is any answer! Shall I send him away? Or have you made up your
mind?"
"Oh yes, I have made up my mind. My note will be ready directly; he may
as well take it. It will save the trouble of sending up to the Hall
later." For Vera remembers that there is not a superfluity of servants
at the vicarage, and that they all of them have plenty to do.
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