You are displeased, I see.
Not at all—not in the least—no business of mine, brother George—none at all, if you like Bridget Pope as much as ever—child though she is—no business of mine brother Burroughs—I am sure of that.
So am I—
You may laugh brother B., you may laugh.
So I shall brother P.—so I shall. O, the sick and sore jealousy of a father! Why—do you not know Matthew Paris—have I not given you the proof—that your Abigail is to me even as if she were my own child—the child of my own dear Sarah? And is not my feeling toward poor Bridget Pope that of one who foresees that her life is to be a life, perhaps of uninterrupted trial and sorrow, because of her extraordinary character. I do acknowledge to you that my heart grows heavy when I think of what she will have to endure, with her sensibility—poor child—she is not of the race about her—
There now George—there it is again! That poor child has never been out of your head, I do believe, since you saw her jump into the sea after little Robert Eveleth; and if she were but six or eight years older, I am persuaded from what I now see, and from what I have seen before——
Matthew Paris!
Forgive me George—forgive me—I have gone too far.
You have gone too far.
Will you not forgive me?