He went over and
locked the office door, and read the letter once more. It was brief and to
the point; it could not be misunderstood; she gave him back his "freedom."
And there was the ring, wrapped in tissue-paper. No, he could hardly be
uncertain as to the meaning of that letter.
And Ole Henriksen drifted back and forth in his office for several hours.
He placed the letter on his desk and walked with hands tightly clasped
behind him. He took the letter again and read it once more. He was "free"!
He must not think that she did not love him, she had written. She thought
of him as much as ever; yes, more even. She begged his forgiveness a
hundred times every day. But what good was it if she thought of him ever
so much? she continued. She was his no more, it had come to that. But she
had not surrendered at once, nor without a struggle; God knows that she
had loved him so dearly, and that she did not want to belong to anybody
but to him. However, it had gone entirely too far now; she would only ask
him to judge her kindly, though she did not deserve it, and not to grieve
over her.
The letter was dated twice. She had not noticed that.
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