Julia continued musing on the dialogue which had
passed, and soon had recourse to the letter of her
friend, the postscript of which was all, however,
that she thought necessary to read: on this she
dwelt until the periods were lengthened into
paragraphs, each syllable into words, and each
letter into syllables. Anna Miller had furnished the
outlines of a picture, that the imagination of Julia
had completed. The name of Edward Stanley was
repeated internally so often that she thought it the
sweetest name she had ever heard. His eyes, his
nose, his countenance, were avowed to be
handsome; and her fancy soon gave a colour and
form to each. He was sensible; how sensible, her
friend had not expressly stated; but then the
powers of Anna, great as they undoubtedly were,
could not compass the mighty extent of so gigantic
a mind. Brave, too, Anna had called him. This she
must have learnt from acts of desperate courage
that he had performed in the war which had so
recently terminated; or perhaps he might have even
distinguished himself in the presence of Anna, by
some exploit of cool and determined daring. Her
heart burned to know all the particulars, but how
was she to inquire them. Anna, dear, indiscreet girl,
had already shown her letters, and her delicacy
shrunk from the exposure of her curiosity to its
object. After a multitude of expedients had been
adopted and rejected as impracticable, Julia
resorted to the course of committing her inquiries