Florinda followed, lazily stretching; yawning a little; arranging her hair at the looking-glass--while Jacob read his mother's letter.
Let us consider letters--how they come at breakfast, and at night, with their yellow stamps and their green stamps, immortalized by the postmark--for to see one's own envelope on another's table is to realize how soon deeds sever and become alien.

Then at last the power of the mind to quit the body is manifest, and perhaps we fear or hate or wish annihilated this phantom of ourselves, lying on the table.

Still, there are letters that merely say how dinner's at seven; others ordering coal; making appointments.

The hand in them is scarcely perceptible, let alone the voice or the scowl.

Ah, but when the post knocks and the letter comes always the miracle seems repeated--speech attempted.