Lucilla would neither juggle with fate, nor see any justification for tampering with other people’s correspondence.
“Flora thinks, now, that she doesn’t want to go away from home.”
“It’s a pity, perhaps, that she didn’t go to Canada instead of you.”
“Yes, but you see Father didn’t really want either of us to go, and Flossie wouldn’t have disobeyed him.”
Flora’s conscience! Owen felt as impatient at the thought of it, as he had frequently felt before. He had, however, long ago sufficiently assimilated the atmosphere of St. Gwenllian to refrain from pointing out that Flora had been for some years of an age to act for herself, independently of the parental sanction. He did not, indeed, suppose that Lucilla needed to have anything so self-evident put before her.
“Do you think Flora would consent to see a doctor?”
“No.”
Miss Morchard’s unvarnished No-es and Yes-es always took him slightly by surprise, especially after any time spent with the Canon.
“The fact is,” said Lucilla vigorously, “that Flora needs something to occupy her mind. She is preying on herself, and unless something happens to take her out of herself, Owen, I think she will go mad.”
He instinctively paid the homage due to her habitual precision of expression, by taking the startling phrase literally.