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ANDREW BAINBRIDGE
At twenty, Andrew was
five years her junior and wise beyond his age. He was the
only child of the village’s wealthiest resident, a widow
of seemingly delicate health who clung possessively to her
only son at the same time that she relinquished to him all
responsibility for the running of their huge mansion and
the 1,000 acres of farmland surrounding it.
* * *
VICTORIA: Now, who do
you wish to marry?
ANDREW: Who do you think
I wish to marry, blue eyes?
VICTORIA: I don’t know
but I hope she is very special because you are.
ANDREW: She’s special.
So special that I even thought about her when I was away
at school during the winters. In fact, I’m glad to be home
so I can see her more often.
VICTORIA: She sounds
quite nice.
ANDREW: I’d say she’s
closer to “wonderful” then “quite nice”. She’s sweet and
spirited, beautiful and unaffected, gentle and stubborn.
Everyone who knows her comes to love her.
VICTORIA: Well, then for
heaven’s sake, why don\t you marry her and have done with
it!
ANDREW: Because, she’s
still too young. You see, her father wants her to wait
until she’s eighteen, so she’ll know her own mind.
VICTORIA: Do you mean
me?
ANDREW: You. Only you.
* * *
“Tory,”
he said with a tender smile, “you’ve been the love of my
life since the day I saw you racing across our fields on
that Indian pony of Rushing River’s. I’m not married,
sweetheart.’
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