His hands shook
and there was a great pain at his heart, as though some one were pulling it
tight, then squeezing it in their fingers and letting it go again.
Then, as suddenly, all his agitation fled. The room was cold and empty
again, and his hands were steady. He took the letter and read it.
It was written in great agitation and almost illegible, and at the bottom
of the paper there was a dirty smudge that might have been a tear stain or
a finger mark. It ran:
_I must go. I have been so unhappy for so long and we don't get on
together, Peter, now. You don't understand me and I must be happy. I had
always been happy until I married you--perhaps it's partly my fault but I
only hinder your work and there is some one else who loves me. He has
always said so.
I would not have gone perhaps if it had not been for what you did on April
12. I know because some one saw you getting into a cab at midnight with
that horrible woman. That shows that you don't care about me, Peter. But
perhaps I would have gone anyhow. Once, the night I told you about baby
coming, I told you there'd be a time when you'd have to hold me. It
came--and you didn't see it. You didn't care--you can't have loved me or
you would have seen.... But anything is better than staying here like this.
I am very unhappy now but you will not care. You are cruel and hard, Peter.
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