And he began to pace the
floor. "A half-witted epileptic!"
"No, no!" she cried. "He may be all right. We--"
"Oh, it's horrible! I can't--" He threw himself back into his chair
again, sweeping his hands across his face, then letting them fall
limply at his sides.
Mrs. Vertrees was tremulous. "You mustn't give way so," she said,
inspired for once almost to direct discourse. "Whatever Mary might
think of doing, it wouldn't be on her own account; it would be on
ours. But if WE should--should consider it, that wouldn't be on OUR
own account. It isn't because we think of ourselves."
"Oh God, no!" he groaned. "Not for us! We can go to the poorhouse,
but Mary can't be a stenographer!"
Sighing, Mrs. Vertrees resumed her obliqueness. "Of course," she
murmured, "it all seems very premature, speculating about such things,
but I had a queer sort of feeling that she seemed quite interested in
this--" She had almost said "in this one," but checked herself. "In
this young man. It's natural, of course; she is always so strong and
well, and he is--he seems to be, that is--rather appealing to the--the
sympathies."
"Yes!" he agreed, bitterly.
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