The outside of
a book is often as eloquent, in its way, as any part of the contents.
Bressant's arms were folded, and the perpendicular line up from between
the eyebrows was quite in harmony with the rest of his appearance. He
was weary, harassed, and divided against himself. Insincerity made him
uncomfortable; it compelled continual exertion, and of a paltry and
degrading kind; and it gave neither a sense of security, nor a prospect
of future advantage. Five days from now he was to be married; the duties
of a parish minister were to be undertaken, and he felt himself neither
mentally nor morally fitted or inclined for the office. Five days from
now the professor would expect from him that gift at which he had hinted
during their drive; and he had done nothing, either in act or purpose,
to fulfil his promise concerning it.
He was cut off from all sympathy. How could he confide to Sophie the
very wrong he meditated against herself--the very deception he was
practising upon her father? And what other person in the world was there
to whom he might venture to betake himself? Cornelia?--not yet! he dared
not yet yield himself to the influence he felt she was exercising over
him; the surrender implied too much; matters had not gone far enough.
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