Dearest Harry!--Why should she begin with a lie?
He was not dearest! 'You must not, must not, must not be angry with Alaric,' she went on to say, as soon as she had told her tale.

Oh, must he not?
Not be angry with Alaric! Not angry with the man who had forgotten every law of honour, every principle of honesty, every tie of friendship! Not angry with the man whom he had trusted with the key of his treasure, and who had then robbed him; who had stolen from him all his contentment, all his joy, his very heart's blood; not angry with him! 'Our happiness will never be perfect unless you will consent to share it.' Thus simply, in the affection of her heart, had Gertrude concluded the letter by which she intended to pour balm into the wounds of her rejected lover, and pave the way for the smoothing of such difficulties as might still lie in the way of her love.
'Their happiness would not be perfect unless he would consent to share it.' Every word in the sentence was gall to him.

It must have been written with the object of lacerating his wounds, and torturing his spirit; so at least said Norman to himself.

He read the letter over and over again.

At one time he resolved to keep it till he could thrust it back into her hand, and prove to her of what cruelty she had been guilty.