Petersburg in the summer."
"Yes, I received it."
"No, not this one. It was the night I was captured, and I never got a
chance to post it. It was an important letter-- for me."
"I thought it important-- for me," replied Dorothy, now smiling quite
openly. "The Nihilists got it, searching your room after you had been
arrested. It was sent on to New York, and given to me."
"Is that possible? How did they know it was for you?"
"I had been making inquiries through the Nihilists."
"I wrote you a proposal of marriage, Dorothy."
"It certainly read like it, but you see it wasn't signed, and you
can't be held to it."
He reached across the table, and grasped her two hands.
"Dorothy, Dorothy," he cried, "do you mean you would have cabled
'Yes'?"
"No."
"You would not?"
"Of course not. I should have cabled 'Undecided.' One gets more for
one's money in sending a long word. Then I should have written--" she
paused, and he cried eagerly:
"What?"
"What do you think?" she asked.
"Well, do you know, Dorothy, I am beginning to think my incredible
luck will hold, and that you'd have written 'Yes.'"
"I don't know about the luck: that would have been the answer."
He sprang up, bent over her, and she, quite unaffectedly raised her
face to his.
"Oh, Dorothy," he cried.
"Oh, Alan," she replied, with quivering voice, "I never thought to see
you again. You cannot imagine the long agony of this voyage, and not
knowing what had happened.
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