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Told in a French Garden - August, 1914 by Mildred Aldrich
page 50 of 204 (24%)
great haste. But before she left the theatre she bade every one "good
night" with more than her usual kindliness, not because she did not
expect to see them all on Monday,--it was a Saturday night,--but
because, in her inexplicably sad humour, she felt an irresistible
desire to be at peace with the world, and a still deeper desire to
feel herself beloved by those about her.

Then she entered her carriage and drove hurriedly home to the tiny
apartment where she lived quite alone.

On the supper table lay a note.

She shivered as she took it up. It was a handwriting she had been
accustomed to see once a year only, in one simple word of greeting,
always the same word, which every year in eighteen had come to her on
New Year's wherever she was.

But this was October.

She sat perfectly still for some minutes, and then resolutely opened
the letter, and read:

"Madge:--I am so afraid that my voice coming to you, not
only across so many years, but from another world, may shock
you, that I am strongly tempted not to keep my word to you,
yet, judging you by myself, I feel that perhaps this will be
less painful than the thought that I had passed forgetful of
you, or changed toward you. You were a mere girl when we
mutually promised, that though it was Fate that our paths
should not be the same, and honorable that we should keep
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