" And she went out, and I heard by the frou-frou of her skirts that
she was ascending the stairs.
After five minutes of breathless anxiety she rejoined me, and handing me
the letter to read, said:
"It is not in her handwriting--I wonder why?"
The paper was of foreign make, with blue lines ruled in squares. Written
in a hand that was evidently foreign, for the mistakes in the
orthography were many, was the following curious communication:
"My Dear Lydia:
"Perhaps you may never get this letter--the last I shall ever be able to
send you. Indeed, I run great risks in sending it. Ah! you do not know
the awful disaster that has happened to me, all the terrors and the
tortures I endure. But no one can assist me, and I am now looking
forward to the time when it will all be over. Do you recollect our old
peaceful days in the garden at Chichester? I think of them always,
always, and compare that sweet peace of the past with my own terrible
sufferings of to-day. Ah, how I wish I might see you once again; how
that I might feel your hand upon my brow, and hear your words of hope
and encouragement! But happiness is now debarred from me, and I am only
sinking to the grave under this slow torture of body and of soul.
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