The words danced before Dorothy's eyes, a sudden stopping of the heart,
a hot flush, a painful dizziness that was at once physical and mental,
made her clutch at the table for support. She dropped the letter, and
stood staring at it, fascinated, as in a nightmare.

An anonymous letter, a cruel, hateful, wicked atrocity! Why should she
receive such a thing? she, who never in her whole life, had wished
anyone ill. It couldn't be so. She had misread, misunderstood. She
picked up the message and looked at it again. It was surely intended for
her, there could be no mistake. Then fear came upon her. The abrupt
entrance of the maid, carrying her hat and veil, gave her a spasm of
panic. No one must see, no one must know. The wretched sender of this
hideous libel must believe it ignored--never received. She thrust the
paper hastily into the bosom of her dress. Its very contact seemed to
burn.

"That will do," she said. "I'm not going out just yet. I--I have some
notes to write; don't bother me now."

Her voice sounded strange. She glanced quickly at the maid, fearing to
surprise a look of suspicion. It seemed impossible that that cracked
voice of hers would pass unnoticed. But the maid bowed, carefully placed
a pair of white gloves by the hat and jacket, and went out as if nothing
had happened.

Dorothy, left alone, stood still for a moment as if robbed of all
volition. Then, with a suppressed cry, she dragged out the accusing
document and carried it to the light. Who could do such a thing! Who