a real person, or a creature of my disordered brain? In plain
and simple language, _could there be such a Person_?
I feared not.
And If there was no H, really, and I married him, where
would I be?
There was a ball at the Club that night, and the Familey
all went. No one came to say good-night to me, and by half past
ten I was alone with my misery. I knew Carter Brooks would be at
the ball, and H also, very likely, dancing around as agreably as
if he really existed, and I had not made him up.
I got the book from Sis's room again, and re-read it. The
woman in it had been in great trouble, too, with her husband
cleaning his revolver and making his will. And at last she had
gone to the apartments of the man who had her letters, in a
taxicab covered with a heavy veil, and had got them back. He had
shot himself when she returned--the husband--but she burned the
letters and then called a Doctor, and he was saved. Not the
doctor, of course. The husband.
The villain's only hold on her had been the letters, so he
went to South Africa and was gored by an elephant, thus passing
out of her life.
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