She, too, had locked her door, and, with throbbing temples and pale face, was writing a letter, from which I take the liberty of printing a few scarcely coherent passages.
* * * * * 'I saw you on Sunday--for near two hours--may Heaven forgive me, thinking of little else than you.

And, oh! what would I not have given to speak, were it but ten words to you?
When is my miserable probation to end?
Why is this perverse mystery persisted in?
I sometimes lose all hope in my destiny, and well-nigh all trust in you.

I feel that I am a deceiver, and cannot bear it.

I assure you, on my sacred honour, I believe there is nothing gained by all this--oh! forgive the word--deception.

How or when is it to terminate ?--what do you purpose ?--why does the clerk's absence from the town cause you so much uneasiness--is there any danger you have not disclosed?
A friend told me that you were making preparations to leave Chapelizod and return to England.