She had not imitated Peter; she had BEEN
Peter. Marian arose suddenly.
She went home, locked the door, and one after another she read
the letters that had piqued, amused, comforted, and finally
intrigued her. They were brilliant letters, charming, appealing
letters, and yet, with knowledge concerning them, Marian wondered
how she could have failed to appreciate in the beginning that
they were from Linda.
"It goes to prove," she said at last, "how hungry the human heart
is for love and sympathy. And that poor kid, what she must have
suffered when she went to Peter for help! And if, as Mr. Snow
thinks, he cares for her, how he must have suffered before he
agreed to help her, as no doubt he did. What I have to do is to
find some way out of the situation that will relieve Linda's
anxiety and at least partially save my face. I shall have to
take a few days to work it out. Luckily I haven't answered my
last letter. When I find out what I really want to say then I
will be very careful how I say it. I don't just exactly relish
having my letters turned over to Peter Morrison, but possibly I
can think of some way--I must think of some way--to make them
feel that I have not been any more credulous than they."
While she thought, both Linda and Peter were doing much thinking
on the same subject. Linda's heart was full of gratitude to
Peter for helping her out of her very disagreeable situation.
Peter had not yet opened the packet of letters lying on his table
He had a sickening distaste for the whole transaction.
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