Marjorie was searching her through and through to discover if marriage
and travel had changed her; but, no, she was the same happy, laughing
Linnet; full of bright talk and funny ways of putting things, with the
same old attitudes and the same old way of rubbing Marjorie's fingers as
she talked. Marriage had not spoiled her. But had it helped her? That
could not be decided in one hour or two.
When she was quiet there was a sweeter look about her mouth than there
had ever used to be; and there was an assurance, no, it was not so
strong as that, there was an ease of manner, that she had brought home
with her. Marjorie was more her little sister that ever.
Marjorie laughed to herself because everything began with Linnet's
husband and ended in him: the stories about Genoa seemed to consist in
what Will said and did; Will was the attraction of Naples and the summit
of Mt. Vesuvius; the run down to Sicily and the glimpse of Vesuvius were
somehow all mingled with Will's doings; the stories about the priest at
Naples were all how he and Will spent hours and hours together comparing
their two Bibles; and the tract the priest promised to translate into
Italian was "The Amiable Louisa" that Will had chosen; and, when the
priest said he would have to change the title to suit his readers, Will
had suggested "A Moral Tale." This priest was confessor to a noble family
in the suburbs; and once, when driving out to confess them, had taken
Will with him, and both had stayed to lunch.
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