I took it back with me to London. One day I read
in a paper that your wife was supposed to have burned it while she was
insane. She was insane, was she not? Ah, well, that is not my affair;
but I burned it for her that afternoon."
They were moving on again. He stopped her once more.
"Why have you told me this?" he cried. "Was it not enough for you that
I should think she did it?"
"No," Lady Pippinworth answered, "that was not enough for me. I always
wanted you to know that I had done it."
"And you wrote that letter, you filled me with joy, so that you should
gloat over my disappointment?"
"Horrid of me, was it not!" said she.
"Why did you not tell me when we met the other day?"
"I bided my time, as the tragedians say."
"You would not have told me," Tommy said, staring into her face, "if
you had thought I cared for you. Had you thought I cared for you a
little jot--"
"I should have waited," she confessed, "until you cared for me a great
deal, and then I should have told you. That, I admit, was my
intention."
She had returned his gaze smilingly, and as she strolled on she gave
him another smile over her shoulder; it became a protesting pout
almost when she saw that he was not accompanying her.
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