Perhaps
he had put it there on purpose! She got up and went to the window, to
check the temptation to read the rest of that letter and see from whom
it was. No! She did not admit that she was tempted. One did not read
letters. Then the full import of those few words struck into her: "Dear
Bryan. But I say--you ARE wasting yourself." A letter in a chain of
correspondence, then! A woman's hand; but not his mother's, nor his
sisters'--she knew their writings. Who had dared to say he was wasting
himself? A letter in a chain of letters! An intimate correspondent,
whose name she did not know, because--he had not told her! Wasting
himself--on what?--on his life with her down here? And was he? Had she
herself not said that very night that he had lost his laugh? She began
searching her memory. Yes, last Christmas vacation--that clear, cold,
wonderful fortnight in Florence, he had been full of fun. It was May
now. Was there no memory since--of his old infectious gaiety? She could
not think of any. "But I say--you ARE wasting yourself." A sudden hatred
flared up in her against the unknown woman who had said that thing--and
fever, running through her veins, made her ears burn. She longed to
snatch forth and tear to pieces the letter, with its guardianship
of which that bust seemed mocking her; and she turned away with the
thought: 'I'll go and meet him; I can't wait here.
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