Somehow, it might surely have been
managed. Mr. Henry had no doubt been extremely rude and overbearing; but
in earlier years Richard had known how to behave towards ill-breeding.
She couldn't tell why, but he was finding it more and more difficult to
get on with people nowadays. He certainly had a very great deal to do,
and was often tired out. Again, he did not need to care so much as
formerly whether he offended people or not--ordinary patients, that
was; the Henrys, of course, were of the utmost consequence. Still, once
on a time he had been noted for his tact; it was sad to see it leaving
him in the lurch. Several times of late she had been forced to step in
and smooth out awkwardnesses. But a week ago he had had poor little
Amelia Grindle up in arms, by telling her that her sickly first-born
would mentally never be quite like other children. To every one else
this had been plain from the outset; but Amelia had suspected nothing,
having, poor thing, no idea when a babe ought to begin to take notice or
cut its teeth. Richard said it was better for her to face the truth
betimes than to spend her life vainly hoping and fretting; indeed, it
would not be right of him to allow it. Poor dear Richard! He set such
store by truth and principle--and she, Mary, would not have had him
otherwise. All the same, she thought that in both cases a small
compromise would not have hurt him. But compromise he would not . . . or
could not.
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