I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. You do not believe me. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. She was the consummate mother, even when extremely tired, she missed nothing. It’s like this: You want freedom. Anna stood looking down upon her sister with grave perturbed face. He wondered if the young fool had any idea of what he had drawn in this tragic lottery called marriage.
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