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hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she brought in upon a
small table near at hand, and seated herself once again on the
lumpy sofa.

"I have had a letter from your friend," she remarked, as she
poured a little cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her.

"My friend?"

"Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico."

"Wrote to YOU?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently.

"Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your
coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent
to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end."

"Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly.

"No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and
the one to whom it is written."

"Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?"

"It was written about you, not to you. `Have you seen Mrs.
Pontellier? How is she looking?' he asks. `As Mrs. Pontellier
says,' or `as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' `If Mrs. Pontellier
should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my
favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play
it. I should like to know how it affects her,' and so on, as if he
supposed we were constantly in each other's society."

"Let me see the letter."

"Oh, no."

"Have you answered it?"


"Let me see the letter."

"No, and again, no."

"Then play the Impromptu for me."
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