—Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his. That was the true miracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love and hate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then, when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to cast them aside for new imaginings. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand.
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