I don't deserve
much credit for that, though, for I knew I should die if I did not see
him again--die of grief, and shame, and humiliation because of what I
had written, for as the days passed, and no answer came, I was afraid
I had said too much, and he had misunderstood me, and would despise
me. If I had only been sure that he did not want to see me again, of
course I should never have written; but so many people have lost their
only chance of happiness because they had not the courage to find out
the truth in some such doubtful matter; and I _did_ believe in him so
--I could not think he would do a _low_ thing. I was in a difficult
position, and I did what I thought was right; but when no answer came
to my letter I began to doubt, and then in a moment of rage, feeling
myself insulted, I wrote again. Yet I don't know what made me write.
It was an impulse--the sort of thing that makes one scream when one is
hurt. It does no good, but the cry is out before you can think of
that. All I said was: 'I understand your silence. You are cruel and
unjust. But I can keep my word, and if I live for nothing else, I
promise that I will make you respect me yet.
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