Fanny's heart began to patter violently: Huxter's fists, plunged into
the pockets of his paletot, clenched themselves involuntarily, and
armed themselves, as it were, in ambush: Mrs. Bolton began to talk
with all her might, and with a wonderful volubility: and Lor! she was
so 'appy to see Mr. Pendennis, and how well he was a lookin', and we'd
been talkin' about Mr. P. only jest before; hadn't we, Fanny? and if
this was the famous Hepsom races that they talked so much about, she
didn't care, for her part, if she never saw them again. And how was
Major Pendennis, and that kind Mr. Warrington, who brought Mr. P's
great kindness to Fanny; and she never would forget it, never: and Mr.
Warrington was so tall, he almost broke his 'ead up against their
lodge door. You recollect Mr. Warrington a knockin' of his head--don't
you, Fanny?
While Mrs. Bolton was so discoursing, I wonder how many thousands of
thoughts passed through Fanny's mind, and what dear times, sad
struggles, lonely griefs, and subsequent shame-faced consolations were
recalled to her? What pangs had the poor little thing, as she thought
how much she had loved him, and that she loved him no more? There he
stood, about whom she was going to die ten months since, dandified,
supercilious, with a black crape to his white hat, and jet buttons in
his shirt front: and a pink in his coat, that some one else had
probably given him: with the tightest lavender-colored gloves sewn
with black: and the smallest of canes.
Pages:
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479