as she had given herself another day for her answer,—but
here it was, beneath his hand. Surely this was
almost unfeminine haste. He chucked the letter,
unopened, a little from him, and endeavoured to fix
his attention on some printed slip that was ready
for him. For some ten minutes his eyes went rapidly
down the lines, but he found that his mind did not
follow what he was reading. He struggled again,
but still his thoughts were on the letter. He
did not wish to open it, having some vague idea that,
till the letter should have been read, there was a
chance of escape. The letter would not become
due to be read till the next day. It should not
have been there now to tempt his thoughts on this night.
But he could do...