It was not for a week or a month. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. You fooled me this morning; but I overheard two old maids talking about you and the young man. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. But supposing he is? Supposing he made but one misstep? Your island would be a haven of security. I'm told he's so handsome. She stood looking down upon him with dilated eyes. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. I cannot go on.
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