Mr. Scarlett made no sign.
From the hour of John's birth--nearly ten years ago--Mrs. Scarlett had
never known a day when she had not been compelled to control her
sentimental affections. From the first John had been an adorable baby,
from the first he had followed his father in the rejection of all
sentiment as un-English, and even if larger questions are involved,
unpatriotic, but also from the first he had hinted, in surprising,
furtive, agitating moments, at poetry, imagination, hidden, romantic
secrets. Tom, May, Clare, the older children, had never been known to
hint at anything--hints were not at all in their line, and of
imagination they had not, between them, enough to fill a silver
thimble--they were good, sturdy, honest children, with healthy stomachs
and an excellent determination to do exactly the things that their class
and generation were bent upon doing. Mrs. Scarlett was fond of them, of
course, and because she was a sentimental woman she was sometimes quite
needlessly emotional about them, but John--no. John was of another
world.
The other children felt, beyond question, this difference.
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