and gentle to us, and—”
Mr. Jarndyce directed his eyes to where he was sitting as I have just described him.
I said no more.
“You are right, little woman,” he answered. “He was all but married once. Long ago. And once.”
“Did the lady die?”
“No—but she died to him. That time has had its influence on all his later life. Would you suppose him to have a head and a heart full of romance yet?”
“I think, guardian, I might have supposed so. But it is easy to say that when you have told me so.”
“He has never since been what he might have been,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “and now you see him in his age with no one near him but his servant and his little yellow friend. It’s your throw, my dear!”