“I want to see old Anderson, my love,” replied Bramble, taking his pipe out of his mouth.
“Yes, and if you once begin again, you’ll not leave off—I know it well: you will never come home except to get clean linen, and be off again; and I shall be in a constant state of alarm and misery. How selfish of you, father! You had better by far have left me to drown on the Goodwin Sands—it would have been more kind,” replied Bessy, weeping.
“Bessy,” said Bramble, “it’s my opinion that you are in love.”
“In love!” cried Bessy, colouring to her throat.
“Yes, in love, my dear, or you would not talk such nonsense.”
“If loving you as my father is being in love, I am, unfortunately.”
“That’s only half of the story; now give us the other,” said Bramble, smiling.
“What do you mean?” inquired Bessy, turning to him.
“Why, how do you love Tom?”
“Not half so much as I love her,” said I.