Mrs. Carruthers always assured me love was a thing of absolutely no
consequence in marriage. You were bound to love some one some time, but
the very fact of being chained to him would dispel the feeling. It was a
thing to be looked upon like measles, or any other disease, and was better
to get it over and then turn to the solid affairs of life. But how she
expected me to get it over when she never arranged for me to see any one,
I don't know.
I asked her one day what I should do if I got to like some one after I am
married to Mr. Carruthers, and she laughed one of her horrid laughs, and
said I should probably do as the rest of the world. And what do they do, I
wonder? Well, I suppose I shall find out some day.
Of course there is the possibility that Christopher (do I like the name of
Christopher, I wonder?)--well, that Christopher may not want to follow her
will.
He has known about it for years, I suppose, just as I have, but I believe
men are queer creatures, and he may take a dislike to me. I am not a type
that would please every one. My hair is too red--brilliant, dark, fiery
red, like a chestnut when it tumbles out of its shell, only burnished like
metal. If I had the usual white eyelashes I should be downright ugly, but,
thank goodness! by some freak of nature mine are black and thick, and
stick out when you look at me sideways, and I often think when I catch
sight of myself in the glass that I am really very pretty--all put
together--but, as I said before, not a type to please every one.
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