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night, even before daydawn, Bhramar sat down to write to her husband. Gobind Lâl had taught her to read and write; but Bhramar never had much taste for study. Her mind was given to her flowers, her dolls, her birds, her husband, but not so much to study, nor to household work. She would take paper and sit down to write; first would come a smudge, then an erasure with the pen, then another smudge, and again a scratching out.

In the course of several days a letter would not get written; but to-day there was nothing of all this. Crooked, halting letters, whatever came first satisfied Bhramar on this occasion. Letters slightly resembling each other in form were freely exchanged, some letters omitted, compound letters written separately; none of this troubled Bhramar. To-day, in a single hour, Bhramar wrote a