Forgive me, Simon. I don't know
what to believe, where to turn. . . . I have looked up to you as the
best and straightest man I know. You must be. Yet why have you done
this? Why didn't you tell me she was married? Why didn't she tell me? I
can't write properly, my head is all on a buzz. The beastly papers say
you were living with her in Algiers--but you weren't, were you? It would
be too horrible. In fact, you say you weren't. But, all the same,
you have stolen her from me. It wasn't like you. . . . And this awful
murder. My God! you don't know what it all means to me. It's breaking my
heart. . . ."
And Lady Kynnersley wrote--with what object I scarcely know. The
situation was far beyond the poor lady's by-laws and regulations for the
upbringing of families and the conduct of life. The elemental mother
in her battled on the side of her only son--foolishly, irrationally,
unkindly. Her exordium was as correct as could be. The tragedy shocked
her, the scandal grieved her, the innuendoes of the Press she refused to
believe; she sympathised with me deeply.
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