“Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. The doorman replied, tipping his cap, “I don’t speak much Italian these days, not since my mother died. He opened the door for her with a faint disagreeable smile. ” There was a moment’s silence. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. No! That was impossible.
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