The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. And by monsieur le baron, of a disposition entirely unforgiving, I do not desire to be recognised in the least. I tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me. A slight cough uttered by Jonathan at the moment awakened the echoes of the place, and was returned in hollow reverberations. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed.
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