"Some of the facts were true, all of the colouring was false—they are the things a loving mother says about her daughter! but that is an old story now, or I had fancied so."
"One forgets the old story until the new story drags it to memory," said he.
She also moved her shoulders slightly.
"I begin to find these conversations tiresome."
"I can understand that.... With her letter your mother enclosed some other letters from her friends—they insist on the facts, and add others."
"Are they letters, or copies of letters?"
"They are copies."
"Of course my mother has forbidden you to disclose the fact that she forwarded her friends' private correspondence to you."
"Naturally."
"Very naturally; the reason being that she wrote these letters herself to herself. There are no originals of these copies."