“That is your decision.”
“After what I have told you?”
“Oh, yes; yes! Write the letter.”
Georgiana chid at an internal wrath that struggled to win her lips. “Promise me simply that what I have told you of my brother, you will consider yourself bound to keep secret. You will not speak of it to others, nor to him.”
Emilia gave the promise, but with the thought; “To him?—will not he speak of it?”
“So, then, I am to write this letter?” said Georgiana.
“Do, do; at once!” Emilia put on her sweetest look to plead for it.
“Decidedly the wisest of men are fools in this matter,” Georgiana’s reflection swam upon her anger.
“And dearest! my Georgey!” Emilia insisted on being blunt to the outward indications to which she was commonly so sensitive and reflective; “my Georgey! let me be alone this evening in my bedroom. The little Madre comes, and—and I haven’t the habit of being respectful to her. And, I must be alone! Do not send up for me, whoever wishes it.”
Georgiana could not stop her tongue: “Not if Mr. Wilfrid Pole—?”
“Oh, he! I will see him,” said Emilia; and Georgiana went from her straightway.
Active despair is a passion that must be superseded
But love for a parent is not merely duty
Had Shakespeare’s grandmother three Christian names?
Littlenesses of which women are accused
Love discerns unerringly what is and what is not duty
Our partner is our master
Passion, he says, is noble strength on fire
Silence was their only protection to the Nice Feelings
The dismally-lighted city wore a look of Judgement terrible to see
The sentimentalist goes on accumulating images
True love excludes no natural duty