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Wordsworth.

"Vera, are you not coming to look at it?"
"Presently."
"It is all laid out on your bed, and you ought to try it on; it might
want alterations."
"Oh, there is plenty of time!"
"It is downright affectation!" says old Mrs. Daintree, angrily, to her
daughter-in-law, as she and Marion leave the room together; "no girl can
really be indifferent to a wedding dress covered with yards of lovely
Brussels lace flounces; she ought to be ashamed of herself for her
ingratitude to Lady Kynaston for such a present; she must really want
to see it, only she likes playing the fine lady beforehand!"
"I don't think it is that," says Marion, gently; "I don't believe Vera is
well."
"Fiddlesticks!" snorts her mother-in-law. "A woman who is going to marry
ten thousand a year within ten days is bound to be well."
Vera sits alone; she leans her head against the window, her hands lie
idle in her lap, her eyes mechanically follow the rough, gray clouds that
rack across the winter sky.


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