It was given
to Mr. Gresley to perceive that the French classics are only read for
the sake of the hideous improprieties contained in them. He had
explained this to Hester, and was indignant that she had continued to
read them just as frequently as before, even translating parts of some
of them into English, and back again into the original. She would have
lowered the Bishop forever in his Vicar's eyes, if she had mentioned by
whose advice and selection she read, so she refrained.
Suddenly, as he read, Mr. Gresley's face softened. He came to the
illness and death of a child. It had been written long before Regie fell
ill, but Mr. Gresley supposed it could only have been the result of what
had happened a few weeks ago since the book was sent up to the
publisher.
Two large tears fell on to the sheet. Hester's had been there before
them. It was all true, every word. Here was no exaggeration, no
fantastic overcoloring for the sake of effect.
"Ah, Hester!" he said, wiping his eyes. "If only the rest were like
that. If you would only write like that."
A few pages more, and his eyes were like flint. The admirable clergyman
who had attracted him from the first reappeared. His opinions were
uncommonly well put. But gradually it dawned upon Mr.
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