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97 the neighbourhood, and I shall be proud of having such a husband.” “Worst of all. And now, say how you love him?” “As everybody loves--You’re silly, Nelly.” “Not at all--Answer.” “I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and everything he touches, and every word he says. I love all his looks, and all his actions, and him entirely and altogether. There now!” “And why?” “Nay, you are making a jest of it; it is exceedingly ill-natured! It’s no jest to me!” said the young lady, scowling, and turning her face to the fire. “I’m very far from jesting, Miss Catherine,” I replied. “You love Mr. Edgar because he is handsome, and young, and cheerful, and rich, and loves you. The last, however, goes for nothing: you would love him without that, probably; and with it you wouldn’t, unless he possessed the four former attractions.” “No, to be sure not: I should only pity him--hate him, perhaps, if he were ugly, and a clown.” “But there are several other handsome, rich young men in the world--handsomer, possibly, and richer than he is. What should hinder you from loving them?” “If there be any, they are out of my way. I’ve seen none like Edgar.” “You may see some; and he won’t always be handsome, and young, and may not always be rich.” “He is now; and I have only to do with the present. I wish you would speak rationally.” “Well, that settles it: if you have only to do with the present, |