"But David," she said, "I don't want him like Lincoln."
The thought must have raised in her mind some vision of the sober-sided Nort of the last few weeks, for she began to laugh again. I cannot describe it, for it was a laughter so compounded of tenderness, joy, sympathy, amusement, that it fairly set one's heart to vibrating. There was no part of Anthy—sweet, strong, loving—that was not in that laugh.
"I don't want him like Lincoln," she said.
"What do you want him like?" I asked.
"Why exactly like himself, like Nort."
"But I thought you rather distrusted his flightiness."
She was hugging herself with her arms, and rocking a little back and forth. An odd wrinkle came in her forehead.
"David, I did—I do—but somehow I like it—I love it."
She paused.
"It seems to me I like everything about Nort."