She was very
positive, quite up to everything; but she was not the sort of person
you could depend on for evidence. Too free a fancy- I suppose that was
it. She afterwards published a work of fiction in which she was
understood to have given a representation- something in the nature
of a caricature, as you might say- of my unworthy self. I didn't
read it, but Ralph just handed me the book with the principal passages
marked. It was understood to be a description of my conversation;
American peculiarities, nasal twang, Yankee notions, stars and
stripes. Well, it was not at all accurate; she couldn't have
listened very attentively. I had no objection to her giving a report
of my conversation, if she liked; but I didn't like the idea that
she hadn't taken the trouble to listen to it. Of course I talk like an
American- I can't talk like a Hottentot. However I talk, I've made
them understand me pretty well over here. But I don't talk like the
old gentleman in that lady's novel. He wasn't an American; we wouldn't
have him over there at any price. I just mention that fact to show you
that they're not always accurate. Of course, as I've no daughters, and
as Mrs.
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