There the extraordinary letter ended, without signature of any sort.
The handwriting afforded no prospect of a clue. It was traced on ruled lines, in the cramped, conventional, copybook character technically termed “small hand.” It was feeble and faint, and defaced by blots, but had otherwise nothing to distinguish it.
“That is not an illiterate letter,” said Miss Halcombe, “and at the same time, it is surely too incoherent to be the letter of an educated person in the higher ranks of life. The reference to the bridal dress and veil, and other little expressions, seem to point to it as the production of some woman. What do you think, Mr. Hartright?”
“I think so too. It seems to me to be not only the letter of a woman, but of a woman whose mind must be—”
“Deranged?” suggested Miss Halcombe. “It struck me in that light too.”
I did not answer. While I was speaking, my eyes rested on the last sentence of the letter: “Your mother’s daughter has a tender place in my heart—for your mother was my first, my best, my only friend.” Those words and the doubt which had just escaped me as to the sanity of the writer of