As the conscious mediator, the monitor who kept
that fearsome menage of horror, grew stronger, Anthony became physically
weaker. He was scarcely able to get through the two days of toil, and
when he was released, one rainy afternoon, and returned to his company,
he reached his tent only to fall into a heavy doze, from which he awoke
before dawn, aching and unrefreshed. Beside his cot were two letters
that had been awaiting him in the orderly tent for some time. The first
was from Gloria; it was short and cool:
* * * * *
_The case is coming to trial late in November. Can you possibly get
leave?_
_I've tried to write you again and again but it just seems to make
things worse. I want to see you about several matters, but you know that
you have once prevented me from coming and I am disinclined to try
again. In view of a number of things it seems necessary that we have a
conference. I'm very glad about your appointment._
GLORIA.
* * * * *
He was too tired to try to understand--or to care. Her phrases, her
intentions, were all very far away in an incomprehensible past.
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