We managed things by mild
indirections, by absurd circumlocutions.
I began to think of the letter that Lamborn had written Zoe. I was
carrying it in my pocket. Did it not prove Lamborn's interest in Zoe? I
handed it to Dorothy, thinking that it would disprove my interest in
Zoe, of which I had been made self-conscious by the accusations; and not
realizing that Dorothy probably knew nothing of all these charges. "Read
this," I said, handing it to Dorothy.
Dorothy took it in at a glance, for it was only a few lines beginning
"Dear Zoe." It was an invitation to Zoe to meet Lamborn again at the
same place. Dorothy's face turned crimson. She handed the note back to
me without a word. I had to struggle with the tough materials of the
revelation that I wished to make. And I went on to tell Dorothy that the
author of the note was Lamborn. "You remember him?" I asked. Dorothy
nodded her head. "Well," I continued, "he is dead, thank God. I killed
him."
Dorothy was overcome. She reeled. After a moment, in which she found her
breath again, she faced about and began to walk toward the town.
I followed, hurt and crushed; for Dorothy had suddenly changed her whole
manner. Her face was impenetrable; and it had paralyzed my hope with its
expression of self-withdrawal, something almost of anger.
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