I can't stand it."
"Am I to understand," he said solemnly, "that you intend to
end everything?"
I felt perfectly wild and helpless.
"After that Letter!" he went on. "After that sweet Letter!
You said, you know, that you were mad to see me, and that--it is
almost too sacred to repeat, even to _you_--that you would
always love me. After that Confession I refuse to agree that all
is over. It can _never_ be over."
"I daresay I am losing my mind," I said. "It all sounds
perfectly natural. But it doesn't mean anything. There _can't_
be any Harold Valentine; because I made him up. But there is, so
there must be. And I am going crazy."
"Look here," he stormed, suddenly quite raving, and
throwing out his right hand. It would have been terrably
dramatic, only he had a glass of punch in it. "I am not going to
be played with. And you are not going to jilt me without a
reason. Do you mean to deny everything? Are you going to say,
for instance, that I never sent you any violets? Or gave you my
Photograph, with an--er--touching inscription on it?" Then,
appealingly, "You can't mean to deny that Photograph, Bab!"
And then that lanky wretch of an Eddie Perkins brought me
a toy Baloon, and I had to dance, with my heart crushed.
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