But that night poor
Carmen cried herself to sleep, resolving that she would hereafter cast
aside her wicked uncle for this good-hearted Americano, yet never once
connected her innocent penmanship with the deadly feud between them.
Women--the best of them--are strong as to collateral facts, swift
of deduction, but vague as children are to the exact statement or
recognition of premises. It is hardly necessary to say that Carmen
had never thought of connecting any act of hers with the claims of her
uncle, and the circumstance of the signature she had totally forgotten.
The masculine reader will now understand Carmen's confusion and blushes,
and believe himself an ass to have thought them a confession of original
affection. The feminine reader will, by this time, become satisfied that
the deceitful minx's sole idea was to gain the affections of Thatcher.
And really I don't know who is right.
Nevertheless she painted a sketch of Thatcher,--which now adorns the
Company's office in San Francisco,--in which the property is laid out in
pleasing geometrical lines, and the rosy promise of the future instinct
in every touch of the brush.
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