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fulness succeeded. Willoughby first rousing himself, broke it thus:
“Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better, certainly out of danger?”
“We are assured of it.”
“Your poor mother too!—doting on Marianne.”
“But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to say about that?”
“Yes, yes, that in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you know, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting at the Ellisons,—and her letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia’s eye before it caught mine—and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion of
its
