Has my intense sympathy with your interests made my
perceptions prophetic? or, to put it fancifully, is there really such a
thing as a former state of existence? and has Mr. Noel Vanstone mortally
insulted me--say, in some other planet?
"I write, my dear Magdalen, as you see, with my customary dash of humor.
But I am serious in placing my services at your disposal. Don't let the
question of terms cause you an instant's hesitation. I accept beforehand
any terms you like to mention. If your present plans point that way, I
am ready to squeeze Mr. Noel Vanstone, in your interests, till the gold
oozes out of him at every pore. Pardon the coarseness of this metaphor.
My anxiety to be of service to you rushes into words; lays my meaning,
in the rough, at your feet; and leaves your taste to polish it with the
choicest ornaments of the English language.
"How is my unfortunate wife? I am afraid you find it quite impossible
to keep her up at heel, or to mold her personal appearance into harmony
with the eternal laws of symmetry and order. Does she attempt to be too
familiar with you? I have always been accustomed to check her, in this
respect. She has never been permitted to call me anything but Captain;
and on the rare occasions since our union, when circumstances may have
obliged her to address me by letter, her opening form of salutation has
been rigidly restricted to 'Dear Sir.
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