His aunt was sitting in the front room, reading a book through a huge
pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. There was a thick fold of flannel
about her neck, and she smelt strongly of embrocation. As Bog rushed
into the room, she groaned audibly, and laid down the book, as if it
were a wicked enjoyment.
"I'm so bad to-day, Bog," said she. "Them shootin' pains'll be the death
of me."
Bog responded not a word, but dashed across the apartment, and, entering
his little sleeping room, closed the door, and bolted it.
"Unfeelin' creetur!" said his aunt. She stopped groaning, and took up
her book and read again.
Bog seated himself on his hair trunk, and drew out the letter. There was
a slight discussion within him on the abstract question of his right to
open it. After turning it over twice, the question was decided in the
affirmative. He slit the envelope with his thumb, and brought to light a
billet faultlessly written, as follows:
"Frederick Lynville begs to present his compliments to Miss Minford, and
to assure her, from the depths of his heart, that his feelings toward
her are only those of the purest admiration for the matchless charms of
her mind and person.
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