Now he wondered, as he stared
at the pictured eyes, so laughingly helpless, at the chin, so
characterless, at the pretty mouth from which no word worth listening
to had ever proceeded--wondered whether the light was other than a
reflection from Youth's glamour. Then he took up the letters and read
them one by one. He wondered why they seemed so shallow--why he had
never noticed their irresponsible dancing from light to shade, from
light affection to unreasonable and trifling fretfulness. The last
letter he held in his hand for some time after he had read it. It was
written from a summer resort. "You had better not come down," it read,
"you would just spoil the delightful little time I am having with Mr.
Sanders--so stay at home with your books like the dear old bore you
are. Please send me ..." He remembered how it had hurt. He remembered
shortly afterwards how she had been taken ill, and how she had chafed
and feared, and how the dark had taken her while she cried in terror.
He remembered--so much. He wished that he had not tried to remember.
It began to grow dark.
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