That affection, though, troubled Mary. To be sure, she had never had a
brother about, to fuss over, and therefore she could not tell just how
deeply she should be expected to love the one whom Providence had given
her; but she was certain that she did not love him too much.
For Sanderson was worthy of the full measure of any sister's love.
Big, handsome, vigorous, with a way about him that any woman must
admire, Mary felt he deserved all the affection she could bestow.
Her wonder and perplexity came over a contemplation of the quality of
that love. Was it right that she should thrill so delightfully
whenever he came near her? And was it entirely proper for her to feel
that queer tingle of delight over the strangeness of it all?
And did that strangeness result from the fact that she had not seen him
for years; or was there some truth in Dale's assertion that she was
merely an adopted daughter, and her love for Sanderson not merely the
love of a sister for a brother, but the love of a woman for a man?
Had Sanderson taken that view of it? She thought he had; for she had
told him about Dale's assertion, and his constraint had begun shortly
after.
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