And knew he loved
her.
And suddenly she broke down--for with his deep gaze in hers the
overwrought spectre had fled!--broke down, no longer doubting, bowing
her head in her slim gloved hands, thrilled to the soul with the
certitude of their unhappiness eternal, and the dreadful pleasure of her
share.
"What is it?" he made out to say, managing also to keep his hands off
her where she sat, bowed and quivering by the table.
"N-nothing. A--a little crisis--over now--nearly over.
It was that letter--other women writing you. . . . And
I--outlawed--tongue-tied. . . . Don't look at me, don't wait.
I--I am going out."
He went to the window, stood a moment, came back to the table, took his
letter, and walked slowly again to the window.
After a while he heard the rustle of her gown as she left the room, and
a little later he straightened up, passed his hand across his tired
eyes, and, looking down at the letter in his hand, broke the seal.
It was from one of the nurses, Miss Casson, and shorter than usual:
"Mrs.
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