But most exasperating of all is the author who, while making his characters suffer the most dreadful afflictions, lets them think and talk only commonplaces still, like the poor sawdust dolls that they are:
"What is the matter with you, Annie?" I said one day, about five months after she had come home....
"You will know some time, Cicely," she answered....
"Why can't you tell me now?" I asked.
"You will know soon enough," she answered. "By the by," she went on, "I am going to Mr. Denham's to-morrow."
"Alone?"
"No, I am going with Cousin Ivan."
"When will you be back?" I asked, for Mr. Denham lived twenty miles away.
"I don't know," she answered sadly.