A volume of Dante lay open
face downwards on the corner. It did my heart good to see this
untidiness, so characteristic of Judith, so familiar, so
intimate. She had taken her trouble bravely, I reflected. The
ordinary daily task had not been left undone. Through all she
had preserved her valiant sanity. I felt rebuked for my own loss
of self-control.
I was about to turn away from the litter of the desk, when my eye
caught sight of an envelope bearing a French stamp and addressed
in Pasquale's unmistakable handwriting. As there seemed to be a
letter inside, I did not take it up to examine it more closely.
The glance was enough to assure me that it came from Pasquale.
Why should he be corresponding with Judith? I walked away
puzzled. Was it a justification, a confession, a plea to her as
my friend to obtain my forgiveness? If there is one thing more
irritating than another it is to light accidentally upon a
mystery affecting oneself in a friend's correspondence. One can
no more probe deeply into it than one can steal the friend's
spoons.
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