I shall be here, but not in the room at first;
I'll come in when you've had a little talk. I don't think he'll
refuse to come when he sees you've got his address."
"What is the address?"
"Patience, my dear; wait till you've written the letter. I'll walk
up and down the room whilst you do it."
He began pacing, but Polly made no movement towards the table. She
was strangely sullen, or, perhaps, depressed; not at all like
herself, even when in anger. She cast glances at her companion, and
seemed desirous of saying something--of making some protest--but her
tongue failed her.
"No hurry," Gammon remarked, after humming through a tune. "Think it
out. Only a line or two."
"Are you telling me the truth about my letter?" she suddenly asked.
"You haven't read it?"
"I assure you I haven't. That's a treat for when I get home."
Still she delayed, but before Gammon had taken many more steps she
was seated at the table, and biting the end of the penholder.
"You'll have to tell me what to say."
"All right. Take the words down.
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