There was Shakespeare, you know, who
married Anne Hathaway and had a clever daughter. She was just a nice,
homely body a few years older than himself. And he seems to have been
very fond of her; and was always running down to Stratford to be with
her."
"Yes, but he didn't bring her up to London," answered the child. "Mama
would have wanted to come; and Papa would have let her, and wouldn't have
gone to see Queen Elizabeth unless she had been invited too."
Joan wished she had not mentioned Shakespeare. There had surely been
others; men who had climbed up and carried their impossible wives with
them. But she couldn't think of one, just then.
"We must help her," she answered somewhat lamely. "She's anxious to
learn, I know."
The child shook her head. "She doesn't understand," she said. "And Papa
won't tell her. He says it would only hurt her and do no good." The
small hands were clenched. "I shall hate her if she spoils his life."
The atmosphere was becoming tragic. Joan felt the need of escaping from
it. She sprang up.
"Oh, don't be nonsensical," she said.
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