Even the stupid people here see how clever he
is. But, oh, it will be so long before I see him again, my love!
my king!"
With each letter that comes from him, similar foolish rhapsodies
are written down, but these letters of his, I gather, as I turn the
pages, grow after a while colder and fewer, and a chill fear that
dare not be penned creeps in among the words.
"March 12th. Six weeks and no letter from Chris, and, oh dear! I
am so hungry for one, for the last I have almost kissed to pieces.
I suppose he will write more often when he gets to London. He is
working hard, I know, and it is selfish of me to expect him to
write more often, but I would sit up all night for a week rather
than miss writing to him. I suppose men are not like that. O God,
help me, help me, whatever happens! How foolish I am to-night! He
was always careless. I will punish him for it when he comes back,
but not very much."
Truly enough a conventional story.
Letters do come from him after that, but apparently they are less
and less satisfactory, for the diary grows angry and bitter, and
the faded writing is blotted at times with tears.
Pages:
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