coming, and that the shooting should be seen to.
She directed the letter; and then sat for an instant looking at Laurie’s—at the neat Oxford-looking hand, the artistic appearance of the paragraphs, and all the rest of it.
She would have liked to keep it—to put it with half a dozen others she had from him; but it seemed better not.
Then as she tore it up into careful strips, her conscience smote her again, shrewdly; and she drew out the top left-hand drawer of the table at which she sat.
There they were, a little pile of them, neat and orderly. She looked at them an instant; then she took them out, turned them quickly to see if all were there, and then, gathering up the strips of the one she had received that morning, went over to the wood fire and dropped them in.
It was better so, she said to herself.