She honestly believed her husband – that big, hearty animal, slow-thinking, obtuse and a trifle bumptious, with all the dominant instincts of the old English squire – seignorial rights and all – to be something of a genius, fretting continually against the petty demands on his time, which, as she took it, were almost akin to the robbing of posterity.
why aren't more people reading elinor mordaunt? i'm loving this story so far
