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The Warden | Anthony Trollope | |
VI. The Warden's Tea Party |
Page 6 of 7 |
And so they all were gone, and Mr Harding was left alone with his daughter. What had passed between Eleanor Harding and Mary Bold need not be told. It is indeed a matter of thankfulness that neither the historian nor the novelist hears all that is said by their heroes or heroines, or how would three volumes or twenty suffice! In the present case so little of this sort have I overheard, that I live in hopes of finishing my work within 300 pages, and of completing that pleasant task--a novel in one volume; but something had passed between them, and as the warden blew out the wax candles, and put his instrument into its case, his daughter stood sad and thoughtful by the empty fire-place, determined to speak to her father, but irresolute as to what she would say. 'Well, Eleanor,' said he, 'are you for bed?' 'Yes,' said she, moving, 'I suppose so; but papa--Mr Bold was not here tonight; do you know why not?' 'He was asked; I wrote to him myself,' said the warden. 'But do you know why he did not come, papa?' 'Well, Eleanor, I could guess; but it's no use guessing at such things, my dear. What makes you look so earnest about it?' 'Oh, papa, do tell me,' she exclaimed, throwing her arms round him, and looking into his face; 'what is it he is going to do? What is it all about? Is there any--any--any--' she didn't well know what word to use--'any danger?' 'Danger, my dear, what sort of danger?' 'Danger to you, danger of trouble, and of loss, and of-- Oh, papa, why haven't you told me of all this before?' |
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