They were gathered into the fold on Sunday,
and had the genuine J. B. on their wool, but there was a cross in
them. There was nothing which could be urged against them. No word
of heresy ever escaped them, no symptom of disbelief was ever seen
and yet Mr. Broad often desired exceedingly that they were different,
was never at ease with them, and in his heart of hearts bitterly
hated them. After all that can be said by way of explanation, there
was much in this concealed animosity of Mr. Broad which was
unaccountable. It was concealed because he was far too worldly-wise
to show it openly; but it was none the less intense. Indeed, it was
so intense as to be almost inconsistent with Mr. Broad's cast of
character, and his biographer is at a loss to find the precise point
where it naturally connects itself with the main stem from which
branch off the rest of his virtues and vices. However, there it was,
and perhaps some shrewder psychologist may be able to explain how
such a passion could be begotten in a nature otherwise so somnolent.
For this literary leaven in the Allen's household, as we have said,
Zachariah was answerable. Mrs. Allen loved him as she loved her
father, and he wrote to her long letters, through which travelled
into Cowfold Square all the thought of the Revolution.
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