He could not sacrifice her friendship
also--her society--the chances of listening from time to time to the
musical low, soft voice.
Carrying this fateful letter in his hand, he went down stairs and out
into the cool night air. And now he was haunted by a hundred fears.
Again and again he was on the point of turning back to add something, to
alter something, to find some phrase that would appeal more closely to
her heart. And then all of a sudden he convinced himself that he should
not have written at all. Why not have gone to see her, at any risk, to
plead with herself? But then he would have had to write to beg for a
_tete-a-tete_ interview; and would not that be more distinctly alarming
than this roundabout epistle, which was meant to convey so much
indirectly? Finally, he arrived at the pillar letter-box: and this
indisputable fact brought an end to his cogitations. If he had gone
walking onward he would have wasted the night in fruitless counsel. He
would have repeated again and again the sentences he had used; striven
to picture her as she read; wondered if he ought not still to go back
and strengthen his prayer.
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