Theresa had, she feared,
been just a wee bit flighty, leaving Damaris unattended while herself
mildly gadding. But such dereliction of duty was insufficient to account
for the arbitrary fashion in which she had been sent about her business,
literally--the word wasn't pretty--chucked out! Miss Felicia always
suspected there must be _something_, she would say _worse_--it sounded
harsh--but something _more_ than merely that. Her interpretations of
peculiar conduct were liable to run in terms of the heart. Had Theresa,
poor thing, by chance formed a hopeless attachment?--Hopeless, of course,
almost ludicrously so; yet what more natural, more comprehensible,
Charles being who and what he was? Not that he would, in the faintest
degree, lend himself to such misplaced affection. Of that he was
incapable. The bare idea was grotesque. He, of course, was guiltless.
But, assuming there _was_ a feeling on Theresa's side, wasn't she equally
guiltless? She could not help being fascinated.--Thus Miss Felicia was
bound to acquit both.
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