But then she turned from me
to Dale, and feminine unreason took possession of her pen. She bitterly
reproached herself for having spoken to me of Madame Brandt. Had she
known how passionate and real was this attachment, she would never have
interfered. The boy was broken-hearted. He accused me of having
stolen her from him--his own words. He took little interest in his
electioneering campaign, spoke badly, unconvincingly; spent hours in
alternate fits of listlessness and anger. She feared for her darling's
health and reason. She made an appeal to me who professed to love
him--if it were honourably possible, would I bring Madame Brandt back to
him? She was willing now to accept Dale's estimate of her worth. Could
I, at the least, prevail on Madame Brandt to give him some hope--of what
she did not know--but some hope that would save him from ruining his
career and "doing something desperate"?
And another letter from Dale:
". . . I can't work at this election. For God's sake, give her back to
me.
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