“Of course. Now, what follows?”
“‘I’m not going to wait for it,’” read Caroline.
“We can’t cut that out,” said Wilfred; “we don’t seem to be making much progress, do we?”
“Well, we will find something in a moment. ‘Do you think I am’——” she hesitated a moment, “‘a damned coward,’” she read with a delicious thrill at her rash, vicarious wickedness.
Wilfred regarded her dubiously. He felt as an author does when he sees his pet periods marked out by the blue pencil of the ruthless editor.
“You might leave that out,” he began, cutting valiantly at his most cherished and admired phrase.
“No,” protested Caroline vehemently, “certainly not! That is the best thing in the whole letter.”
“That ‘damn’ is going to cost us seven dollars, you know.”
“It is worth it,” said Caroline, “it is the best thing you have written. Your father is a General in the army, he’ll understand that kind of language. What’s next? I know there’s something now.”
“‘Tom Kittridge has gone. He was killed yesterday at Cold Harbor.’”