"Show me: give it me to read."
"You see, you are delighted after all."
I tore the letter from him.
First Fanny wrote to her parents in German, on the last page in Magyar to me. She had already made such progress.
She wrote that they often spoke of me at home; I was a bad boy not to write mother a letter: she was very ill and it was her sole delight to be able to speak of me. As often as her parents or brother wrote to Fanny, she would add a few lines after opening the letter, in my name, then take it to my mother and read it to her, as if I had written. How delighted she was! She did not know my German writing, so she readily believed it was I who had written. But I must be a good boy and write myself, for some day mother and grandmother would discover the deceit and would be angry.
My heart was almost bursting.
I pored over the letter I had read, and sobbed bitterly as I had never before done in my life.
My dear only mother! thou saint, thou martyr! who sufferest, weepest, and anguishest so much for my sake, while I mix in a society where they mock women, and mothers! Canst thou forgive me?
When I had cried myself out, my face was covered with tears. Henrik raised me from my seat upon the floor.
"Give me this letter," I panted; and I kissed him for giving it to me.