“And do you forgive me, dear boy?”
“For what, sir?—I am sure, I have most reason to demand your pardon for a thousand follies.”
“Ah! the letter—the unkind—the inconsiderate letter!”
“I have not had a letter from you, sir, in a twelvemonth; the last was anything but unkind.”
“Though Anna wrote, it was at my dictation.”
I passed a hand over my brow, and had dawnings of the truth.
“Anna?”
“Is here—in Paris—and miserable—most miserable!—on your account.”
Every particle of monikinity that was left in my system instantly gave way to a flood of human sensations.
“Let me fly to her, dear sir—a moment is an age!”