Index, fingered
Her John Franklin is not fleshed out by any Googled facts and so is amenable only to the tribunal of her, Penney’s, own thoughts, the order in which she chooses to arrange the events for us, and is too much taken up with the airy world of contemplation to lay as much stress as (maybe) she ought on the practical consequences of things. The habitual principles of action are unhinged and out of joint with the time, the snow scenes wrap up her reflections, and everything works as a sort of exaggerated thinking aloud.
Richard Marshall on that “most amiable of misanthropes” Bridget Penney.