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92 complicated one, it is often difficult to find words to express our feelings. I wonder to this day when I think over the strange fate of this oft written and as often destroyed letter, whether it would have reached its destination if it had been written in Bengali instead of English. Who knows?

The week that marked his absence was approaching its end, the day was near when he would return—and not a solitary letter had I written, although I had wasted a quire of paper in the attempt. I had at last abandoned my forlorn hope, consoling myself with the thought that I should soon see him again and that after all letters were a mere superfluity. It would be much better for me to tell him what I felt, I could never express all my feelings on paper. He would, of course, gladly forgive me when he heard of the tragic fate of the many letters I had written through the week, and so I rested at ease.

The week of his absence lengthened into a fortnight, and there was no news of his return.

But there was gossip, my sister heard of that at a dinner-party one evening. I saw her the next morning looking worried, and