You'll get this when you go home to supper, and I want you to
telephone Aunt Isobel right away and tell her I won't be home
to-night. She will think I am with Rose and that will keep her from
being anxious. I don't care how anxious grandmother is! To-morrow
I'll send them a wire from Chicago telling them I'm married.
Dear Quin, I know this is a terribly serious step, and I know you
won't approve; but I am unhappy enough to die, and I don't know where
else to turn, or what to do. Some day I hope you will know Mr. Phipps
better, and see what a really fine man he is. Do try to comfort Aunt
Isobel, and make her understand. Please don't hate me, but try to
forgive your utterly miserable friend,
E. M. B.
Quin stood staring at the letter. He felt as he had on that August day
when the flying shrapnel struck him--the same intense nausea, the deadly
exhaustion, the bursting pain in his head. Involuntarily he raised his
hand to the old wound, half expecting to feel the blood stream again
through his fingers.
"Married! Married!" he kept repeating to himself dazedly. "Miss Nell gone
to marry that man, that scoundrel!"
He sat down on the stair steps and tried to hold the thought in his mind
long enough to realize it.
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