“Listen, Teresa! What is the meaning of all this? Why must you get others to write for you when I have already written it, and you haven’t sent it?”
“Sent it where?”
“Why, to this—Boles.”
“There’s no such person.”
I absolutely did not understand it. There was nothing for me but to spit and go. Then she explained.
“What is it?” she said, still offended. “There’s no such person, I tell you,” and she extended her arms as if she herself did not understand why there should be no such person. “But I wanted him to be... Am I then not a human creature like the rest of them? Yes, yes, I know, I know, of course... Yet no harm was done to any one by my writing to him that I can see...”
“Pardon me—to whom?”
“To Boles, of course.”
“But he doesn’t exist.”
“Alas! alas! But what if he doesn’t? He doesn’t exist, but he might! I write to him, and it looks as if he did exist. And Teresa—that’s me, and he replies to me, and then I write to him again...”