Harold [tears it open angrily, and reads]. "I have been out in the night under the stars. Oh, that you were here, my beloved! It is easy to stand the dust and the turmoil of the mine without you, but beauty that I cannot share with you hurts me like a pain—"
[He throws the letter on the table and turns toward her, speechless.]
Anne [inexorably]. Yes, that's an exceptionally beautiful one. But there are more—lots more. Would you like to see them?
Harold. But I tell you, I never wrote them. These aren't my letters.
Anne. Whose are they, then?
Harold [walking up and down furiously]. God knows! This is some outrageous trick. You've been duped, you poor child. But we'll get to the bottom of this. Just leave it to me. I'll get detectives. I'll find out who's back of it! I'll—
[He comes face to face with her and finds her looking quietly at him with something akin to critical interest.]
Harold. Good Lord. What's the matter with me! You don't believe those letters. You couldn't think I wrote them, or you wouldn't have met me as you did, quite naturally, as an old friend. You understand! For heaven's sake, make it clear to me!
Anne. I am trying to.... I told you there had to be ... answers.... I was afraid to send my letters to you, but there had to be answers. [Harold stares at her.] So I wrote them myself.
Harold. You wrote them yourself?!?