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might have been hard to explain, but she was not disturbed for
want of an explanation.  She did not care for the man in the
least, and there might be fifty reasons why her aunt and uncle
should think him undesirable.  On the whole, she believed that
Taquisara had enormously exaggerated the state of the case.  The
Sicilian himself impressed her as singularly honest and bold,
but she was much more ready to believe that the friend who had
sent him might have interested views, than that Bosio Macomer,
whom she liked and admired, was anxious to get possession of her
fortune.  Taquisara himself had struck her as something new in
the way of a man, of a sort such as she had never seen nor
dreamt of, and her mind dwelt long on the recollection of the
interview.  In some way which she could not explain, she vaguely
connected him with the book she was now reading—­the Bride of
Lammermoor; in other words, he appeared to her in the light of a
romantic character,