"You are aware," she said, in a hard, icy voice—oh so unlike the sweet tones of only yesterday—"what Father Francis came here yesterday to say. You and my father might have told me sooner; but I blame nobody. What I want to say is this: From this hour I never wish to hear from anyone the slightest allusion to the past; I never want to hear the names of those who are gone. I desire you to tell this to my father and sister. Your influence over them is greater than mine."
I bowed assent without looking up; I could feel the icy stare with which she was regarding me, without lifting my eyes.
"Father Francis mentioned a letter that R——"; she hesitated for a moment, and finally said—"that she sent you. Will you let me see it?"
That cruel, heartless, insulting letter! I looked up imploringly, with clasped hands.
"Pray don't," I said. "Oh, pray don't ask me! It is unworthy of notice—it will only hurt you more deeply still."
She held out her hand steadily.
"Will you let me see it?"
What could I do? I took the letter from my pocket, bitterly regretting that I had not destroyed it, and handed it to her.
"Thank you."
She walked to the window, and with her back to me read it through—read it more than once, I should judge, by the length of time it took her. When she faced me again, there was no sign of change in her face.