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Updated: May 22, 2025
She was a connection of the Wetmores, as was he, though through opposite sides of the house. In the few minutes’ talk that followed, he had the disconcerting sensation of being "talked down to." There was the indulgent tolerance of the woman of the world to the "nice boy" about this amazing young woman, who might have been eighteen.
Rumors of Miss Colebrooke’s beauty were rife, and there was a general inclination to compare her with local belles. Such exotic types—they had seen these city beauties before—were as a rule too colorless for their appreciation. They liked faces that had "more go to them," was the verdict passed upon one famous beauty who had visited the Wetmores the year before.
Peter made no confidences. He went West to punch cows for the Wetmore outfit; he was a distant connection of the Wetmores through his mother’s side of the family. In those days Peter wore his rue—whether for lady fair or for towering prospects stricken down—with a tinge of wan melancholy not unbecoming to a gentle aquilinity of profile, softened by the grace of adolescence.
There were several of the Synthesis girls, who said the Synthesis would never be itself again without Cornelia, and there were some of the students, nice fellows, whom Charmian had liked; there were, of course, the Wetmores.
This Aaron Stone had been traced, first, as an apprentice to a tradesman; thence into a regiment of foot in the British army, which regiment had accompanied the rest of the forces, at the evacuation, November 25th, 1783. The Wetmores fancied they were now on the track of their child.
Would her loyalty bear the test of seeing Peter made a fool of by a woman she could dismiss with a shrug—a softly speaking shrew, perhaps, who played a waiting game with her finger on the pulse of Peter’s prospects? For there was talk of a partnership with the Wetmores.
And will you come back with me now, into the room where they are dancing, and let me present you to them, to the Wetmores, as my Judith, my betrothed?" "But, Peter, I don’t understand. I—I thought you and Miss Colebrooke were—" "That’s all over, Judith. I did love her once. Oh, you dear, brave woman, I’m not a hero from any point of view, and you know it.
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