caught sight of her) of a blunter cast of features.
Indeed, when I knew her better I began to think it was a Mercy she had any features at all, so very blank and high was the dead wall of her face.
“Poor dear soul!” said this lady, with an abruptness of manner quite my sister's. “Nobody's enemy but his own!”
“It would be much more commendable to be somebody else's enemy,” said the gentleman; “far more natural.”
“Cousin Raymond,” observed another lady, “we are to love our neighbor.”
“Sarah Pocket,” returned Cousin Raymond, “if a man is not his own neighbor, who is?”