She held it before me with the
address uppermost.
"Please to look at that," she said.
The letter was directed (in Harry's handwriting) to Mr. Vimpany, at a
publishing office in London. Fanny next turned the envelope the other
way.
"Look at this side," she resumed.
The envelope was specially protected by a seal; bearing a device of my
husband's own invention; that is to say, the initials of his name
(Harry Norland) surmounted by a star--his lucky star, as he paid me the
compliment of calling it, on the day when he married me. I was thinking
of that day now. Fanny saw me looking, with a sad heart, at the
impression on the wax. She completely misinterpreted the direction
taken by my thoughts.
"Tell me to do it, my lady," she proceeded; "and I'll open the letter."
I looked at her. She showed no confusion. "I can seal it up again," she
coolly explained, "with a bit of fresh wax and my thimble. Perhaps Mr.
Vimpany won't be sober enough to notice it."
"Do you know, Fanny, that you are making a dishonourable proposal to
me?" I said.
"I know there's nothing I can do to help you that I won't do," she
answered; "and you know why. I have made a dishonourable proposal--have
I? That comes quite naturally to a lost woman like me.
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