"Oh, wouldn't I though! I'd do it like a shot."

She wondered why she hadn't thought of it an hour ago.

"Well--If there's no other way to stop you--"

Her mother gave her the letter, picking it up by one corner, as though it
had been a dirty pocket-handkerchief.

"It'll show you," she said, "the sort of man he is."

Mary held the letter in both her hands, gently. Her heart beat gently now
with a quiet feeling of happiness and satisfaction. She looked a long
time at the characters, the long-tailed M's, the close, sharp v's, the
t's crossed with a savage, downward stab. She was quiet as long as she
only looked. When she read the blood in her brain raced faster and
confused her. She stopped at the bottom of the first page.

"I can't think what he means."

"It's pretty plain what he means," her mother said.

"About all those letters. What letters?"

"Letters he's been writing to your father and me and your Uncle Victor."

"When?"

"Ever since you left school. You were sent to school to keep you out of
his way; and you weren't back before he began his persecuting. If you