As there were often several young women to one man, most
of the girls had to content themselves with the flirtations in
the books, where, I dare say, the heroines were always prying the
heroes' hands open. On every seat one found them poring upon the
glowing page, and met them in every walk with a volume under the
arm, and another clasped to the heart. At places where the hand
played, and they were ostensibly listening to the music, they
were bowed upon their books, and the flutter of the turning
leaves almost silenced the blare of the horns. By what
inspiration they knew when _God Save the King_ was coming,
and rose with a long sigh heaved in common, I should not be able
to say. Perhaps they always reached the end of a story at the
time the band came to that closing number, or perhaps they felt
its imminence in their nerves. The fiction was not confined to
the young girls, however. Both sexes and all ages partook of it;
I saw as many old girls as young girls reading novels, and
mothers of families were apparently as much addicted to the
indulgence.
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