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 while I put the peas to soak for the purée at dinner.”

With this direction, she left the room.

“You suspect I have many enemies then, Caroline?” said Mr. Moore; “and, doubtless, you know me to be destitute of friends?”

“Not destitute, Robert. There is your sister, your brother Louis—whom I have never seen—there is Mr. Yorke, and there is my uncle; besides, of course, many more.”

Robert smiled. “You would be puzzled to name your ‘many more,’&thinsp;” said he. “But show me your exercise-book. What extreme pains you take with the writing! My sister, I suppose, exacts this care: she wants to form you in all things after the model of a Flemish school-girl. What life are you destined for, Caroline? What will you do with your French, drawing, and other accomplishments when they are acquired?”

“You may well say, when they are acquired; for, as you are aware, till Hortense began to teach me, I knew precious little. As to the life I am destined for, I cannot tell: I suppose, to keep my uncle’s house, till—” she hesitated.

“Till what? Till he dies?”

“No. How harsh to say that! I never think of his dying: he is only fifty-five. But till—in short, till events offer other occupations for me.”

“A remarkably vague prospect! Are you content with it?”