He has just given Markland two hundred
pounds for a paltry little tale that would scarcely swell out to
a volume. Markland told me himself. You know that I've scraped an
acquaintance with him? Oh! I suppose I haven't seen you since
then. He's a dwarfish fellow with only one eye. Mrs Boston Wright
cries him up at every opportunity.'
'Who IS Mrs Boston Wright?' asked Reardon, laughing impatiently.
'Edits The English Girl, you know. She's had an extraordinary
life. Was born in Mauritius--no, Ceylon--I forget; some such
place. Married a sailor at fifteen. Was shipwrecked somewhere,
and only restored to life after terrific efforts;--her story
leaves it all rather vague. Then she turns up as a newspaper
correspondent at the Cape. Gave up that, and took to some kind of
farming, I forget where. Married again (first husband lost in
aforementioned shipwreck), this time a Baptist minister, and
began to devote herself to soup-kitchens in Liverpool. Husband
burned to death, somewhere. She's next discovered in the thick of
literary society in London. A wonderful woman, I assure you.
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