There was so much to say.

They were still exploring each other, after the hurry of their marriage, and short engagement.

For a time she chattered to him about her own early life--their old red-brick house in a Manchester suburb, with its good-sized rooms, its mahogany doors, its garden, in which her father used to work--his only pleasure, after his wife's death, besides 'the concerts'-- 'You know we've awfully good music in Manchester!' As for her own scattered and scanty education, she had begun to speak of it almost with bitterness.

George's talk and recollections betrayed quite unconsciously the standards of the academic or highly-trained professional class to which all his father's kindred belonged; and his only sister, a remarkably gifted girl, who had died of pneumonia at eighteen, just as she was going to Girton, seemed to Nelly, when he occasionally described or referred to her, a miracle--a terrifying miracle--of learning and accomplishment.
Once indeed, she broke out in distress:--'Oh, George, I don't know anything! Why wasn't I sent to school! We had a wretched little governess who taught us nothing.

And then I'm lazy--I never was ambitious--like Bridget.