When they went upstairs together and parted for the night, the clinging
of Rosy's embrace was for a moment almost convulsive. But she tried to
laugh off its suggestion of intensity.
"I held you tight so that I could feel sure that you were real and would
not melt away," she said. "I hope you will be here in the morning."
"I shall never really go quite away again, now I have come," Betty
answered. "It is not only your house I have come into. I have come back
into your life."
After she had entered her room and locked the door she sat down and
wrote a letter to her father. It was a long letter, but a clear one.
She painted a definite and detailed picture and made distinct her chief
point.
"She is afraid of me," she wrote. "That is the first and worst obstacle.
She is actually afraid that I will do something which will only add to
her trouble. She has lived under dominion so long that she has forgotten
that there are people who have no reason for fear. Her old life seems
nothing but a dream. The first thing I must teach her is that I am to be
trusted not to do futile things, and that she need neither be afraid of
nor for me."
After writing these sentences she found herself leaving her desk and
walking up and down the room to relieve herself.
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