“I wrote it for you. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. I wanted the magic of love. She guessed that he probably slept all of three hours a night at most. Afterward she wanted to get her letter to her father back in order to read it over again, and, if it tallied with her general impression of it, re-write it. It fell to the ground and smoked ominously. You must always shave and part your hair straight. Certainly I never met him.
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