"Don't think for a single moment, Amy, that I pay the slightest attention
to any of their talk. I would not have bothered you with any of this had
it not been for something else--of which I'll speak in a moment. If
everything is right between us--between you and me--then it doesn't matter
if the whole world talks until it's blue in the face."
"Leave it alone, then," she said. "Let them talk."
Her indifference stung him. She didn't care, then, whether things were
right between himself and her or no? It was the same to her. She cared so
little for him.... That sudden realisation struck him so sharply that it
was as though some one had hit him in the back. For so many years he had
taken it for granted...taken something for granted that was not to be so
taken. Very dimly some one was approaching him--that dark, misty, gigantic
figure--blotting out the light from the windows. That figure was becoming
day by day more closely his companion.
Looking at her now more intently, and with a new urgency, he said:
"Some one brought me a letter, Amy. They said it was a letter of yours.
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