“Those letters!” she said shrilly. “Whose letters? They were from him––they were from him––weren’t they from him?” she asked hoarsely.
“No,” said Micky doggedly.
Better to hurt her now, he told himself, than to let her go on to worse pain and humiliation.
There was a tragic silence; then she asked again, in a whisper––
“Then who––who wrote them?”
A wave of crimson flooded Micky’s white face. He dropped his head in his hands as if he could not bear to meet her eyes.
“I did,” he said brokenly.