Richard had sometimes noted a bad instance with annoyance, but it was not that which made him hurry to the end this morning with lowered brows.

When he had finished the letter he crumbled it up and threw it into the fire.

It was not heartlessness that made him do so: he dreaded to have these letters brought before his eyes a second time.
He was also throwing the envelope aside, when he discovered that it contained yet another slip of paper.

The writing on this was not Emma's: the letters were cramped and not easy to decipher.
'Dear Richard, come to London and see me.

I want to speak to you, I must speak to you.