Pitman; you are a woman of imagination. Don't
you think you could be Alice Murray for a few moments? Now think--you
are a stenographer with theatrical ambitions: you meet an actor and
you fall in love with him, and he with you."
"That's hard to imagine, that last."
"Not so hard," he said gently. "Now the actor is going to put you on
the stage, perhaps in this new play, and some day he is going to marry
you."
"Is that what he promised the girl?"
"According to some letters her mother found, yes. The actor is
married, but he tells you he will divorce the wife; you are to wait
for him, and in the meantime he wants you near him; away from the
office, where other men are apt to come in with letters to be typed,
and to chaff you. You are a pretty girl."
"It isn't necessary to overwork my imagination," I said, with a little
bitterness. I had been a pretty girl, but work and worry--
"Now you are going to New York very soon, and in the meantime you have
cut yourself off from all your people. You have no one but this man.
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