Greystock. What was said in that letter Lucy never knew; but she did know
that Frank's few letters to herself were not full and hearty--were not
such thorough-going love-letters as lovers write to each other when they
feel unlimited satisfaction in the work. She excused him, telling herself
that he was overworked, that with his double trade of legislator and
lawyer he could hardly be expected to write letters, that men, in respect
of letter-writing, are not as women are, and the like; but still there
grew at her heart a little weed of care, which from week to week spread
its noxious, heavy-scented leaves, and robbed her of her joyousness. To be
loved by her lover, and to feel that she was his, to have a lover of her
own to whom she could thoroughly devote herself, to be conscious that she
was one of those happy women in the world who find a mate worthy of
worship as well as love--this to her was so great a joy that even the
sadness of her present position could not utterly depress her. From day to
day she assured herself that she did not doubt and would not doubt-that
there was no cause for doubt; that she would herself be base were she to
admit any shadow of suspicion.
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