Then towards the
end of another year there comes this entry, written in a hand of
strange neatness and precision:-
"It is all over now. I am glad it is finished. I have written to
him, giving him up. I have told him I have ceased to care for him,
and that it is better we should both be free. It is best that way.
He would have had to ask me to release him, and that would have
given him pain. He was always gentle. Now he will be able to
marry her with an easy conscience, and he need never know what I
have suffered. She is more fitted for him than I am. I hope he
will be happy. I think I have done the right thing."
A few lines follow, left blank, and then the writing is resumed,
but in a stronger, more vehement hand.
"Why do I lie to myself? I hate her! I would kill her if I could.
I hope she will make him wretched, and that he will come to hate
her as I do, and that she will die! Why did I let them persuade me
to send that lying letter? He will show it to her, and she will
see through it and laugh at me. I could have held him to his
promise; he could not have got out of it.
"What do I care about dignity, and womanliness, and right, and all
the rest of the canting words! I want him.
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