“The letter was to you,” I said. “I opened it with the rest.”
There was a single piteous whimper. Then she looked at me in perplexity:
“Where is it? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s in my despatch-box. . . . I didn’t want to harrow you, darling. I think he was delirious part of the time.” . . .
“Will you get it for me?”
“I’ve told you all that matters. It will only make you miserable to read it.”
She seemed not to have heard me; but a strangled laugh, more terrible than her crying, shewed the worth of my comfort:
“D’you think anything can make me more miserable than I’ve been these last twelve days?,” she asked. Then she tore herself from me and stood with her hands pressed to her temples, staring at me in mingled bewilderment and rage. “All the time . . .? And you . . .? The last thing he ever wrote . . . oh, I might have reached him while there was still time! When did you get the letter?”
“Just before I left London.”
“While he was still alive . . . Ah, God, the cruelty of kind people!” With the tears still wet on her cheeks, she forced a smile. “And you’ve been carrying it about ever since? George dear, you’ve punished me for all the crimes I’ve committed and all that I shall never have time to commit if I live to be a thousand. . . . May I have my letter?”