But she cares for music; I believe she writes poetry; and there can be no doubt that she has a peculiar charm--" She ceased, as if defining to herself this peculiar charm.

After a moment's silence William jerked out: "I thought her affectionate ?" "Extremely affectionate.

She worships Henry.

When you think what a house that is--Uncle Francis always in one mood or another--" "Dear, dear, dear," William muttered.
"And you have so much in common." "My dear Katharine!" William exclaimed, flinging himself back in his chair, and uprooting his eyes from the spot in the fire.

"I really don't know what we're talking about....