“Well, as you do not seem to be in a condition to explain yourself, perhaps you had better let me read the letter.” “O no.”
“Nonsense! Give it me; perhaps I may be able to help you;” and she took the paper from her unresisting grasp, and, turning her face from the light, read it deliberately through.
It was very passionate in its terms, and rather incoherent; such a letter, in short, as a lad almost wild with love and grief would write under the circumstances.
“So,” said Florence, as she coolly folded it up, “it appears that you are engaged to him.”
No answer, unless sobs can be said to constitute one. “And it seems that you are engaged to a man who has just committed a frightful murder, and run away from the consequences.”
Eva sat up on the bed.
“It was not a murder; it was a duel.”
“Precisely, a duel about another woman; but the law calls it murder. If he is caught he will be hanged.”
“O Florence! how can you say such dreadful things?”
“I only say what is true. Poor Eva, I do not wonder that you are distressed.”