So I will trouble my reader to take an interest in my report
of the affair.
Percy met Harry at the gate, after one of his professional visits, and
accosted him thus:
"Mr. Armstrong, my mother says you have been rude to her."
"I am not in the least aware of it, Mr. Percy."
"Oh! I don't care much. She is provoking. Besides, she can take care of
herself. That's not it."
"What is it, then?"
"What do you mean about Adela?"
"I have said nothing more than that she has had a sharp attack of
intermittent fever, which is going off."
"Come, come--you know what I mean."
"I may suspect, but I don't choose to answer hints, the meaning of which I
_only_ suspect. I might make a fool of myself."
"Well, I'll be plain. Are you in love with her?"
"Suppose I were, you are not the first to whom I should think it necessary
to confess."
"Well, are you paying your addresses to her?"
"I am sorry I cannot consent to make my answers as frank as your
questions. You have the advantage of me in straightforwardness, I confess.
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