On such slight hinges do our destinies turn. If
Abbie had neglected to call at the post-office, or if she had been
satisfied to give the letter to the young man herself, instead of
sending it to him five minutes beforehand, or if the writing of the
letter had been delayed a few hours (how many _ifs_ there always are in
such cases!), Bressant would have had a far different fate, and this
story would never have been written. But as it was, five fatal minutes
intervened between the delivery of the letter and Abbie's appearance,
during which time he had read it through twice--at first hurriedly, the
second time slowly and carefully--had replaced it in the envelop, and
put the envelop in his pocket. Then he sat quite quiet, leaning back in
his chair, his head thrown forward, his under eyelids drawn up, and
contracted around the piercing glance of his eves, his jaws and lips set
tight, and a straight line up his forehead from between his eyebrows. A
more unpleasant and forbidding expression one does not often meet; but,
such as it was, it grew still more stern and unpromising when the door
once more slowly opened, and Abbie appeared upon the threshold.
Nevertheless, he at once rose, and inclined forward his lofty shoulders
in a remarkably courteous bow.
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