Miss Bremer called on us the other day. We find her very little changed
from what she was when she came to take tea and spend an evening at our
little red cottage, among the Berkshire hills, and went away so
dissatisfied with my conversational performances, and so laudatory of my
brow and eyes, while so severely criticising my poor mouth and chin. She
is the funniest little old fairy in person whom one can imagine, with a
huge nose, to which all the rest of her is but an insufficient appendage;
but you feel at once that she is most gentle, kind, womanly, sympathetic,
and true. She talks English fluently, in a low quiet voice, but with
such an accent that it is impossible to understand her without the
closest attention. This was the real cause of the failure of our
Berkshire interview; for I could not guess, half the time, what she was
saying, and, of course, had to take an uncertain aim with my responses.
A more intrepid talker than myself would have shouted his ideas across
the gulf; but, for me, there must first be a close and unembarrassed
contiguity with my companion, or I cannot say one real word.
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