.. and I was hurt when I learned that she had gone back
to Newark to live, and had left no word for me. Her father told me she
"had gone back to George," meaning her never-seen husband from whom she
evidently enjoyed intervals of separation and grass-widowhood.
I was puzzled and hurt indeed, because she had not even said good-bye
to me. But soon came this brief note from her:
"Dearest Boy:--
Do come up to Newark and see me some afternoon. And come more than
once. Bring your Tennyson that you was reading aloud to me. I love
to hear you read poetry. I think you are a dear and want to see
more of you. But I suppose you have already forgotten
Your loving
FLORA."
In the absurd and pitiful folly of youth I lifted the letter to my lips
and kissed it. I trembled with eagerness till the paper rattled as I
read it again and again. It seemed like some precious holy script.
I bolted my lunch nervously and it stuck half way down in a hard lump. I
would go to her that very afternoon.
* * * * *
The car on which I rode was subject to too frequent stoppage for me. I
leaped out and walked along with brisk strides. But the car sailed forth
ahead of me now on a long stretch of roadway and I ran after it to catch
it again.
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