All
the time I have thought that when she came back, YOU would want
her. Peter, I fibbed when I said I was setting your brook for
Louise Whiting. I was not. I don't know Louise Whiting. She is
nothing to me. I was setting it for you and Marian. It was a
WHITE head I saw among the iris marching down your creek bank,
not a gold one, Peter."
Peter licked his dry lips and found it impossible to look at
Linda.
"Straight ahead with it," he said gravely. "What did you do?"
"Oh, I have done the awfullest thing," wailed Linda, "the most
unforgivable thing!"
She reached across and laid hold of the hand next her, and
realizing that she needed it for strength and support, Peter gave
it into her keeping.
"Yes?" he questioned. "Get on with it, Linda. What was it you
did?"
"I had a typewriter: I could. I began writing her letters, the
kind of letters that I thought would interest her and make her
feel loved and appreciated."
"You didn't sign my name to them, did you, Linda?" asked Peter in
a dry, breathless voice.
"No, Peter," said Linda, "I did not do that, I did worse. Oh, I
did a whole lot worse!"
"I don't understand," said Peter hoarsely.
"I wanted to make them fine. I wanted to make them brilliant.
I wanted to make them interesting. And of course I could not do
it by myself. I am nothing but a copycat. I just quoted a lot
of things I had heard you say; and I did worse than that, Peter.
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