A man not easily led or controlled, a
man of passions and prejudices, emphatically not a man to be trifled
with or ignored.
In the midst of the pile of letters he came upon one at the sight of
which his indifference vanished as though by magic. It was a heavy,
square envelope, a coronet upon the flap, addressed to David Drexley,
Esq., in a handwriting distinctly feminine. He singled it out from the
rest, held it for a moment between his thumb and broad forefinger, and
then turned his chair round, abandoning the rest of his correspondence
as a matter of infinitesimal consequence. A letter from her was by no
means an everyday affair, for she was a woman of caprices, as who should
know better than he? There were weeks during which it was her pleasure
to hold herself aloof from him--and others--when the servants who denied
her shook their heads to all questions, and letters met with no
response. What should he find inside, he wondered? An invitation, or a
reproof. He had tried so hard to see her lately. He was in no hurry
to open it. He had grown to expect very little from her. While it was
unopened there was at least the pleasure of expectancy. He traced the
letters over. There was the same curl of the S, the same finely formed
capitals, the same deliberate and firm dash after the address.
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