Explore "The Beetle" by Richard Marsh on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Paul has stormed the House of Commons with one of the greatest speeches which even he has delivered, and I have quarrelled with papa. And, also, I have very nearly quarrelled with Sydney.
Sydney's little affair is nothing. He actually still persists in thinking himself in love with me -- as if, since last night, when he what he calls "proposed" to me, he has not time to fall out of love, and in again, half a dozen times; and, on the strength of it, he seems to consider himself entitled to make himself as disagreeable as he can. That I should not mind -- for Sydney disagreeable is about as nice as Sydney any other way; but when it comes to his shooting poisoned shafts at Paul, I object. If he imagines that anything he can say, or hint, will lessen my estimation of Paul Lessingham by one hair's breadth, he has less wisdom even than I gave him credit for. By the way, Percy Woodville asked me to be his wife tonight -- which, also, is nothing; he has been trying to do it for the last three years -- though, under the circumstances, it is a little trying; but he would not spit venom merely because I preferred another man -- and he, I believe, does care for me.