Harold. Serious? What do you mean?
Anne. Come here. [He obeys. She sits in a big chair, but avoids looking at him. There is a delicate imitation of a tragic actress in the way she tells her story.] I wonder if I can make you understand? It means so much to me that you should—so much! Harold, you know how dull life is here in this little town. You were glad enough to get away after a year of it, weren't you? Well, it's worse for a girl, with nothing to do but sit at home—and dream—of you. Yes, that's what I did, until, at last, when I couldn't stand it any longer, I wrote you.
Harold [quickly]. I never got the letter, Miss Carey. Honor bright, I didn't.
Anne. Perhaps not, but you answered it.
Harold. Answered it? What are you talking about?
Anne. Would you like to see your answer? [She goes to the desk, takes a packet of letters out of a drawer, selects one, and hands it to him.] Here it is—your answer. You see it's post-marked Rio Janeiro.
Harold [taking it wonderingly]. This does look like my writing. [Reads.] "Anne, my darling—" I say, what does this mean?
Anne. Go on.
Harold [reading]. "I have your wonderful letter. It came to me like rain in the desert. Can it be true, Anne, that you do care? I ask myself a hundred times what I have done to deserve this. A young girl seems to me as exquisite and frail as a flower—" Great Scott! You don't think I could have written such stuff! What in the world!
Anne [handing over another letter]. Here's the next letter you wrote me, from the mine. It's a beautiful one. Read it.