And the old colonel is a noble
character, too.
I am glad that the Daws are such pleasant people. The Pines is an
isolated spot, and my resources are few. I fear I should have found
life here somewhat monotonous before long, with no other society
than that of my excellent sire. It is true, I might have made a
target of the defenceless invalid; but I haven't a taste for
artillery, moi.
VI.
JOHN FLEMMING TO EDWARD DELANEY.
August 17, 1872.
For a man who hasn't a taste for artillery, it occurs to me, my
friend, you are keeping up a pretty lively fire on my inner works.
But go on. Cynicism is a small brass field-piece that eventually
bursts and kills the artilleryman.
You may abuse me as much as you like, and I'll not complain; for I
don't know what I should do without your letters. They are curing
me. I haven't hurled anything at Watkins since last Sunday, partly
because I have grown more amiable under your teaching, and partly
because Watkins captured my ammunition one night, and carried it
off to the library. He is rapidly losing the habit he had acquired
of dodging whenever I rub my ear, or make any slight motion with my
right arm. He is still suggestive of the wine-cellar, however. You
may break, you may shatter Watkins, if you will, but the scent of
the Roederer will hang round him still.
Ned, that Miss Daw must be a charming person.
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