His letters told her this. These letters indeed were
everything to her--a woman can get so much more comfort out of a letter
than a man. Next to receiving them she loved to answer them. She was a
good and even a brilliant letter writer, but often and often she would
tear up what she had written and begin again. There was not much news
in Bryngelly; it was difficult to make her letters amusing. Also the
farcical nature of the whole proceeding seemed to paralyse her. It was
ridiculous, having so much to say, to be able to say nothing. Not that
Beatrice wished to indite love-letters--such an idea had never crossed
her mind, but rather to write as they had talked. Yet when she tried to
do so the results were not satisfactory to her, the words looked strange
on paper--she could not send them.
In Geoffrey's meteor-like advance to fame and fortune she took the
keenest joy and interest, far more than he did indeed. Though, like that
of most other intelligent creatures, her soul turned with loathing
from the dreary fustian of politics, she would religiously search the
parliamentary column from beginning to end on the chance of finding his
name or the notice of a speech by him.
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