Exactly what he
had done he had no means of knowing. If he had known and had
talked intentionally he could not have made clearer to Marian the
thing which for months had puzzled her. She was aware that
Eugene Snow was talking, that he was describing the dinner he had
been served, the wonderful wild-flower garden that he had seen,
how skillfully Linda drove the Bear Cat. She heard these things
and dimly comprehended them but underneath, her brain was seizing
upon one fact after another. They had exchanged typewriters.
The poor, foolish little kid had known how her health was
wracked, how she was suffering, how her pride would not let her
stoop to Eileen's subterfuges and wage war with her implements
for a man she did not want if her manner of living her everyday
life did not appeal to him. Linda had known how lonely and heart
hungry and disappointed she had gone away, and loyally she had
tried to create an interest in life for her; and she had
succeeded entirely too well. And then in a panic she must have
gone to Peter Morrison and explained the situation; and Peter
must have agreed to take over the correspondence. One by one
things that had puzzled her about the letters and about the whole
affair began to grow clear. She even saw how Linda, having
friendly association with no man save Peter, would naturally use
him for a model. The trouble was that, with her gift of
penetration and insight and her facility with her pen, she had
overdone the matter.
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