Peter licked his dry lips and found it impossible to look at Linda.
“Straight ahead with it,” he said gravely. “What did you do?”
“Oh, I have done the awfullest thing,” wailed Linda, “the most unforgivable thing!”
She reached across and laid hold of the hand next her, and realizing that she needed it for strength and support, Peter gave it into her keeping.
“Yes?” he questioned. “Get on with it, Linda. What was it you did?”
“I had a typewriter: I could. I began writing her letters, the kind of letters that I thought would interest her and make her feel loved and appreciated.”
“You didn’t sign my name to them, did you, Linda?” asked Peter in a dry, breathless voice.
“No, Peter,” said Linda, “I did not do that, I did worse. Oh, I did a whole lot worse!”
“I don’t understand,” said Peter hoarsely.
“I wanted to make them fine. I wanted to make them brilliant. I wanted to make them interesting. And of course I could not do it by myself. I am nothing but a copycat. I just quoted a lot of things I had heard you say; and I did worse than that, Peter. I watched the little whimsy lines around your mouth and I tried to interpret the perfectly lovely things they would make you say to a woman if you loved her and were building a dream house for her. And oh, Peter, it’s too ghastly; I don’t believe I can tell you.”