Aunt Anne, Volume 1 by W.K. Clifford — Read

The next morning Aunt Anne did not appear. She sent word that she would like her breakfast carried up, a fire lighted in her room, and to be left alone for a couple of hours.

Florence was distracted. She had written to Walter, but as the mail did not go out till three days later, nothing was gained by her haste. She had considered things all round, and the more she did so the more amazing did Mr. Wimple's proposal seem. It was all nonsense to suppose, as Aunt Anne evidently believed, that he was in love with a woman more than twice his age. Florence mentally reviewed Aunt Anne's charms. She was not even a round, plump old lady with rosy cheeks, and a stray dimple that seemed to have found her company so good it was loath to vanish altogether. She was wrinkled, and thin, and feeble-looking. Her eyes were small and weak, the left one had the nervous affection that so often provided an almost droll accompaniment to her talk. Her skin was withered and sallow. Florence tried to feel like a young man about to marry Aunt Anne, and the idea was not pleasant. She felt that it was almost a duty to prevent the marriage if possible-that Aunt Anne owed it to her past years, to her own dignity, to her relations, to every one and everything not to make a fool of herself.