Hers could not have been very warm, for she did not brighten on reading it.
Mine was an ordinary note of friendship, filling an ordinary sheet of paper, which I handed over to Caroline when I had finished looking it through.

But there was a scrap of paper in the bottom of the envelope, which I dared not show any one.

This scrap is his real letter: I scanned it alone in my room, trembling, hot and cold by turns.

He tells me he is very wretched; that he deplores what has happened, but was helpless.

Why did I let him see me, if only to make him faithless.