'
I was afraid I should frighten my good angel visitant away, and
without the smallest breath of pause went on to add a few
directions as to stuffs and colours.
She opened big eyes upon me. 'O, Mr. St. Ives!' she cried--'if
that is to be your name--I do not say they would not be becoming;
but for a journey, do you think they would be wise? I am afraid'--
she gave a pretty break of laughter--'I am afraid they would be
daft-like!'
'Well, and am I not daft?' I asked her.
'I do begin to think you are,' said she.
'There it is, then!' said I. 'I have been long enough a figure of
fun. Can you not feel with me that perhaps the bitterest thing in
this captivity has been the clothes? Make me a captive--bind me
with chains if you like--but let me be still myself. You do not
know what it is to be a walking travesty--among foes,' I added
bitterly.
'O, but you are too unjust!' she cried. 'You speak as though any
one ever dreamed of laughing at you. But no one did. We were all
pained to the heart. Even my aunt--though sometimes I do think she
was not quite in good taste--you should have seen her and heard her
at home! She took so much interest. Every patch in your clothes
made us sorry; it should have been a sister's work.'
'That is what I never had--a sister,' said I.
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