He resigned it to her, tugging at his mustache, and watching her covertly as she moved nearer the light and began to read. He marveled at her composure, her decision. She was not evading the ugly task--her eyes moved too slowly for that, and her face reflected too clearly the unsparing comments on her behavior.
It was coarse beyond belief. Only a man half out of his wits could have allowed any woman of his family to read such a thing. Many of the expressions she had never heard before, but it is a peculiarity of gross Anglo-Saxon to be readily understood. Nothing was lost on Phyllis, either in the description of the man she loved, or the accusations of the vilest kind leveled at herself. It was an infamous production, soiling and disgusting, nakedly spiteful, and nakedly pornographic.
She perused it unflinchingly to the end; studied the signature, "One who knows," and handed it back to her father.
"I thought people were put in prison for writing such letters," she said in an even voice.
"So they are," he returned curtly, "though that isn't quite the point."
"What is the point?"
"To know how much of it is true."
Again her composure startled him. "Is it possible you believe any of it?" she asked.
"Yes, I do," he said.--He was holding the letter in his hand, like a lawyer in court, cross-examining a witness. He was determined to get at the bottom of all this.
"Is it true you went to the theater twice?"