With shaking hand Rose unfolded the first letter; it was written in clear
commercial character, and was signed 'Charles James Burroughs.' When she
had read all, the girl said quietly--
'Are you quite sure, father, that these letters are impertinent?'
Mr. Whiston stopped in the act of finger-combing his beard.
'What doubt can there be of it?'
'They seem to me,' proceeded Rose nervously, 'to be very respectful and
very honest.'
'My dear, you astound me! Is it respectful to force one's acquaintance upon
an unwilling stranger? I really don't understand you. Where is your sense
of propriety, Rose? A vulgar, noisy fellow, who talks of beer and
tobacco--a petty clerk! And he has the audacity to write to me that he
wants to--to make friends with my daughter! Respectful? Honest? Really!'
When Mr. Whiston became sufficiently agitated to lose his decorous gravity,
he began to splutter, and at such moments he was not impressive. Rose kept
her eyes cast down. She felt her strength once more, the strength of a
wholly reasonable and half-passionate revolt against that tyrannous
propriety which Mr. Whiston worshipped.
'Father--'
'Well, my dear?'
'There is only one thing I dislike in these letters--and that is a
falsehood.
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