I ask
nothing from you, and enclose you the balance of your own
money. I can make my living and care for the children, whom
you never wanted."
The last three words scrawled slantingly down the page; they were in
large and heavier writing--they looked like a cry. The letter was
unsigned, and smudged. It might have been written by a dying person. The
sight of it struck him with unbearable pain. He stood, staring at it
stupidly.
Felicity called him three times before he noticed her--the last time she
had to raise her voice quite loudly. He turned then, and saw her sitting
with unwonted straightness at the table. Her eyes were wide open, and
fixed.
"I have a letter from Connie." She spoke almost crisply. "Why did you not
tell me that your wife was enceinte?"
"Why should I tell you?" he asked, staring at her with indifference.
"Had I known it I should not have lived with you. I thought she had let
you come here alone through phlegmatic British coldness. If she lost you,
it was her affair. This is different. You have not played fair with us."
"Mary was never cold," said Stefan dully, ignoring her accusation.
"That makes it worse." She sat like a ramrod; her face might have been
ivory; her hands lay folded across the open letter.
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