"Oh, no," said she, "she's not married, Aunt Margaret--at least not now,
though I believe she's a widow, or something of that kind, you know--and
she hasn't any children at all! As to her other name, I don't know it,
and I believe hardly any one does. You see, she's one of that queer sort
of people; she's very quiet, and always grave, and nobody knows much
about her, except that she's very good, and has lived in the village for
twenty years and more. I believe, though, papa has met her before, or
knows something about her in some way; but he never says any thing to us
on the subject."
This was all that could be got out of Cornelia upon the topic of Abbie,
and Mrs. Vanderplauck was obliged to swallow whatever uneasiness,
curiosity, or misgiving she may have felt. In the midst of an
exhortation to her young guest to repeat her visit daily to the boudoir,
and regale her auntie with anecdotes of the dear old, interesting people
in the village, Abbie and all, some one of the young ladies knocked at
the door, and hurried Miss Valeyon off, without her having asked, as
she had intended, for an explanation of the puzzling, metaphorical
allusions.
Mrs. Vanderplanck, left to herself, rocked backward and forward in her
chair, with her hands clasped over her forehead, much in the way that an
insane person might have done.
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