Though I held myself aloof, as I say, from practically all my fellow
creatures here, I have not been cut off from the outside world. My
sisters, like this French court in Algiers, have accepted my statement
with polite incredulity. Their letters have been full of love,
half-veiled reproach, anxiety as to their social position, and an insane
desire to come and take care of me. This I have forbidden them to do.
The pain they would have inflicted on themselves, dear souls, would have
far outweighed the comfort I might have gained from their ministrations.
Then I have had piteous letters from Dale.
". . . Your telegram reassured me, though I was puzzled. Now I get a
letter from Lola, telling me it's all off--that she never loved me--that
she valued my youth and my friendship, but that it is best for us not to
meet again. What is the meaning of it, Simon? For Heaven's sake tell me.
I can't think of anything else. I can't sleep. I am going off my
head. . . ."
Again. ". . . This awful newspaper report and your letter of
explanation--I have them side by side.
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