Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. And a time will come, Veronica, mark my words, a time will come when you will bless me for my firmness to-night. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. The lace was family lace, easily recognizable. I told him I would bring him to the gallows, and I was as good as my word. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter.
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