What is the matter with my people? Chatterbox reduced to monosyllables, and the Silent Man pouring forth words thick as those that once burst from the deep chest of Ulysses of many wiles; and they, as we all know, thronged thick as flakes of wintry snow.
“Don’t you think I am an idiot? Have you the least doubt of it?” exclaimed the poor fellow, with fierce humility.
Alice gave a little start and looked up.
“A confounded stammering idiot?”
“Mr. Frobisher!”
He didn’t mean it. Charley could never have done such a thing on purpose; but his left arm suddenly threw off all allegiance to his will, and actually pressed a certain modest little dimpled hand against his heart so hard that it blushed to the finger-tips. Alice looked down with quickened breath, slackened pace; but Charley swept her forward with loftier stride, drawing in mighty draughts of air, and glaring defiance at the universe. He did not, however, stride over the railing at the end of the piazza. Taking advantage of the halt—
“Strange!” said Alice, in a low voice; “do you know that I, too, have often wondered what you thought of me? Seeing you sitting, silent and thoughtful, while I was rattling on in my heedless way, I often wondered whether you did not think me a chatterer destitute as well of brains as of heart. No? Really and truly? You are very kind to say so!”
“Kind!” exclaimed Charley. “Kind! ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻.”
“✻ ✻ ✻ ✻” said Alice, looking down—“✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻.”
“✻ ✻ ✻” continued Charley, “✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ yes, ✻ ✻ first and only ✻ ✻ Richmond ✻ ✻ very first moment ✻ ✻ never again ✻ ✻ dreaming and waking ✻ ✻ despair ✻ ✻ torments of the ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ abyss!”