AC dBooks

It was the morning before the day of my marriage. I followed my aunt as
she passed through the house like a biting March wind, scolding
everybody, until I found her in her own room.
She was ironing her new white cap, and as I entered (looking pale, I
suppose) she flopped down her flat iron on to its stand and cried:
"Goodness me, girl, what's amiss? Caught a cold with your morning walks,
eh? Haven't I enough on my hands without that? We must send for the
doctor straight. We can't have _you_ laid up now, after all this trouble
and expense."
"It isn't that, Auntie."
"Then in the name of goodness what is it?"
I told her, as well as I could for the cold grey eyes that kept looking
at me through their gold-rimmed spectacles. At first my aunt listened
with amazement, and then she laughed outright.
"So _you've_ heard that story, have you? Mary O'Neill," she said, with a
thump of her flat iron, "I'm surprised at you."
I asked if she thought it wasn't true.
"How do I know if it's true? And what do I care whether it is or isn't?
Young men will be young men, I suppose.


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