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262. . . . It's sultry now, the sun is scorching; we are sure to have a storm this evening."

She now left her room, ready, and thought:

"Addie is coming to lunch to-day; it's his day: oh, how I always long for that day! . . . Last time, he had to answer some letters and ran for ink for his writing-table. I'll just see if everything is in order now."

She entered the room that used to be Addie's study:

"Yes, the ink's there," she told herself, with a glance at the writing-table. "How uncosy, how cold the room looks, with nothing but the old furniture, the old man's furniture! . . . There are letters for Addie again: the poor boy never has any rest. . . ."

Casually she took a step towards the table and was struck by the appearance of the letters:

"What is that?" she thought.

The letters—there were three of them—were without stamps or postmarks: it was this that had struck her.

"Bills?" she wondered for a moment.

Then she shivered and began to tremble so violently that she dropped into Addie's chair. She had recognized Guy's hand.

There were three letters. One was addressed to herself and her husband: to "Uncle Henri and Aunt Constance. . . ." The second: to "Addie. . . ."

The third: to "Mamma. . . ."

She sat distraught, staring at the three letters vacantly, without putting out her hand. A cloud of white squares seemed to whirl about her: it was as if the envelopes were flying round in a circle before her eyes. And she felt suddenly faint.

"What is it? What does it mean?" she asked herself, aloud.