These have been days, as I say, of tedious horror. There have been
endless examinations, reconstructions of the crime, exposures in daring
publicity of the private lives of the protagonists of the lunatic drama.
The French judges and advocates have accepted the account given by Lola
and myself of our mutual relations with a certain mocking credulity. The
Press hasn't accepted it at all. It took as a matter of course the
view held by the none too noble victim. At first, seeing Lola shrug her
shoulders with supreme indifference as to her own reputation, I cared
but little for these insinuations. I wrote such letters to my sisters
and to Dale as I felt sure would be believed, and let the long-eared,
gaping world go hang. Besides, I had other things to think of. Physical
pain is insistent, and I have suffered damnable torture. The pettiness
of the legal inquiry has been also a maddening irritation. Nothing has
been too minute for the attention of the French judiciary. It seemed as
though the whole of the evil gang of the Cercle Africain were called as
witnesses.
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