Ah, my Alfred, can I
tell you how I miss you, how I weep for you. My thoughts are with you
always, I think of nothing but you, I live for nothing but you and our
dear baby. If you do not come back to me soon, I shall die, and our child
will die. But no, you cannot come back to me. But I can come to you, come
to England with our child. If you do not wish to present me to your good
mother and father, you can meet me in some town, some city, for I shall
be so frightened to be alone in England with my child, and no one to take
care of us. Yet I must come to you, I must bring my child, my little
Alfred to his father, the big, beautiful Alfred that I love so much. Oh,
write and tell me where I shall come. I have some money, I am not a
penniless creature. I have money for myself and my dear baby--'
I read to the end. It was signed: 'Your very happy and still more unhappy
Elise.' I suppose I must have been smiling.
'I can see it makes you laugh,' said Mrs. Goyte, sardonically. I looked
up at her.
'It's a love-letter, I know that,' she said. 'There's too many "Alfreds"
in it.'
'One too many,' I said.
'Oh, yes--And what does she say--Eliza? We know her name's Eliza, that's
another thing.' She grimaced a little, looking up at me with a mocking
laugh.
'Where did you get this letter?' I said.
'Postman gave it me last week.'
'And is your husband at home?'
'I expect him home tonight.
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