She sat down and wrote on the four pages
of a note-sheet a succinct narrative of those events of three or four
years ago, put it into an envelope, and directed it to Clare. Then,
lest the flesh should again be weak, she crept upstairs without any
shoes and slipped the note under his door.
Her night was a broken one, as it well might be, and she listened for
the first faint noise overhead. It came, as usual; he descended, as
usual. She descended. He met her at the bottom of the stairs and
kissed her. Surely it was as warmly as ever!
He looked a little disturbed and worn, she thought. But he said not
a word to her about her revelation, even when they were alone. Could
he have had it? Unless he began the subject she felt that she could
say nothing. So the day passed, and it was evident that whatever
he thought he meant to keep to himself. Yet he was frank and
affectionate as before. Could it be that her doubts were childish?
that he forgave her; that he loved her for what she was, just as she
was, and smiled at her disquiet as at a foolish nightmare? Had he
really received her note? She glanced into his room, and could see
nothing of it. It might be that he forgave her.
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