Give me the letters, Linda. Give me a
few days to study them. Exchange typewriters with me so I can
have the same machine. Give me some of the paper on which you
have been writing and the address you have been using, and I'll
guarantee to get you out of this in some way that will leave you
Donald, and your friendship with Marian quite as good as new."
At that juncture Peter might have been kissed, but his neck was
very stiff and his head was very high and his eyes were on a
far-distant hilltop from which at that minute he could not seem
to gather any particular help.
"Would it be your idea," he said, "that by reading these letters
I could gain sufficient knowledge of what has passed to go on
with this?"
"Of course you could," said Linda.
Peter reached in his side pocket and pulled out a clean
handkerchief. He shook it from its folds and dried her eyes.
Then he took her by her shoulders and set her up straight.
"Now stop this nerve strain and this foolishness," he said
tersely. "You have done a very wonderful thing for me. It is
barely possible that Marian Thorne is not my dream woman, but we
can't always have our dreams in this world, and if I could not
have mine, truly and candidly, Linda, so far as I have lived my
life, I would rather have Marian Thorne than any other woman I
have ever met."
Linda clapped her hands in delight.
"Oh, goody goody, Peter!" she cried. "How joyous! Can it be
possible that my bungling is coming out right for Marian and
right for you?"
"And right for you, Linda?" inquired Peter lightly.
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