You
could tell them things they'd love to hear--and some would be true
things. You were in the hospital close to St. Raphael for months, while
Jimmy Beckett was in the training camp. Who's to say you didn't meet? If
you'd been engaged to him since that day years ago, you certainly would
have met. No rules could have kept you apart. Go to them--go to them--or
if you're afraid, write a note, and ask if they'll receive you. If they
refuse, no harm will have been done."
Maybe, even then, if I'd stopped to tell myself what a wicked, cruel
plan it was, I should have given it up. But it seemed a burning
inspiration, and I knew that I must act upon it at once or never.
I subsided into my chair again, and softly, very softly, hitched it
closer to the table which pretended to be a writing-desk. Inside a
blotting-pad were a few sheets of hotel stationery and envelopes. My
stylographic pen glided noiselessly over the paper. Now and then I
glanced over my shoulder at Brian, and he was still fast asleep, looking
more like an angel than a man. You know my nickname for him was always
"Saint" because of his beautiful pure face, and the far-away look in his
eyes. Being a soldier has merely bronzed him a little. It hasn't carved
any hard lines. Being blind has made the far-away things he used to see
come near, so that he walks in the midst of them.
I wrote quickly and with a dreadful kind of ease, not hesitating or
crossing out a single word.
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