And she seemed to make an effort to reflect. In this I encouraged her.
"Yes!" I said, "try to get a clear idea of the state of your mind. To
me it seems in a great mess--chaotic as a rag-bag."
"It is something in this fashion," she cried out ere long: "the man is
too romantic and devoted, and he expects something more of me than I
find it convenient to be. He thinks I am perfect: furnished with all
sorts of sterling qualities and solid virtues, such as I never had,
nor intend to have. Now, one can't help, in his presence, rather
trying to justify his good opinion; and it does so tire one to be
goody, and to talk sense,--for he really thinks I am sensible. I am
far more at my ease with you, old lady--you, you dear crosspatch--who
take me at my lowest, and know me to be coquettish, and ignorant, and
flirting, and fickle, and silly, and selfish, and all the other sweet
things you and I have agreed to be a part of my character."
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