She flung herself down on the bed and buried her face.
“Why did I write?” she wailed. “Why did I ever write? If only I’d waited . . . if only . . .”
She began to weep passionately.
Giles, fresh from his bath, stared at his letter as at a death-warrant.
He read it through twice, carefully.
Then he sat down on his bed, sweating, and read it again.
Then he lowered the document to his knee and sat staring at his wardrobe with eyes that saw nothing.
Finally, he gave a short laugh and, getting upon his feet, proceeded to brush his hair, whistling softly. . . .
Half-way through the operation, he started violently.
“My God!” he cried. “That blasted letter of mine. . . .”