It gave her strength, after a moment, to walk on slowly in the
direction of the post office, and go in through the swinging doors. At
one of the windows she bought a sheet of letter-paper, an envelope and a
stamp; then she sat down at a table and dipped the rusty post office pen
in ink. She had come there possessed with a fear which had haunted her
ever since she had felt Mr. Royall's ring on her finger: the fear that
Harney might, after all, free himself and come back to her. It was a
possibility which had never occurred to her during the dreadful hours
after she had received his letter; only when the decisive step she had
taken made longing turn to apprehension did such a contingency seem
conceivable. She addressed the envelope, and on the sheet of paper she
wrote:
I'm married to Mr. Royall. I'll always remember you. CHARITY.
The last words were not in the least what she had meant to write; they
had flowed from her pen irresistibly. She had not had the strength to
complete her sacrifice; but, after all, what did it matter? Now that
there was no chance of ever seeing Harney again, why should she not tell
him the truth?
When she had put the letter in the box she went out into the busy sunlit
street and began to walk to the hotel.
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