He
followed her.
"I'll write you," said Ann.
"But why--?"
"I can't," said Ann. "I've got a rehearsal."
A car was passing. She made a dash for it and clambered on. Before
he could make up his mind it had gathered speed.
Ann let herself in with her key. She called downstairs to the small
servant that she wasn't to be disturbed for anything. She locked
the door.
So it was to Matthew that for six years she had been pouring out her
inmost thoughts and feelings! It was to Matthew that she had laid
bare her tenderest, most sacred dreams! It was at Matthew's feet
that for six years she had been sitting, gazing up with respectful
admiration, with reverential devotion! She recalled her letters,
almost passage for passage, till she had to hold her hands to her
face to cool it. Her indignation, one might almost say fury, lasted
till tea-time.
In the evening--it was in the evening time that she had always
written to him--a more reasonable frame of mind asserted itself.
After all, it was hardly his fault. He couldn't have known who she
was. He didn't know now. She had wanted to write. Without doubt
he had helped her, comforted her loneliness; had given her a
charming friendship, a delightful comradeship. Much of his work had
been written for her, to her.
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