She might have confessed this lukewarmness towards
literary enterprise in the anger which her father excited eight
or nine days ago, but at that time she could not have uttered her
opinion calmly, deliberately, as now. The smile which accompanied
the words was also new; it signified deliverance from pupilage.
'I have felt that,' returned her father, after a slight pause to
command his voice, that it might be suave instead of scornful. 'I
greatly fear that I have made your life something of a martyrdom
----'
'Don't think I meant that, father. I am speaking only of the
general question. I can't be quite so zealous as you are, that's
all. I love books, but I could wish people were content for a
while with those we already have.'
'My dear Marian, don't suppose that I am out of sympathy with you
here. Alas! how much of my work has been mere drudgery, mere
labouring for a livelihood! How gladly I would have spent much
more of my time among the great authors, with no thought of
making money of them! If I speak approvingly of a scheme for a
new periodical, it is greatly because of my necessities.
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