In what, Paul--strange resemblances in what?"
"Why, in faces."
"Why, then, so there are--and in persons, also; and sometimes in fates;
but we were talking of handwritings, Paul."
"Were we? Oh, true. I am not quite right, Miriam. I believe I have
confined myself too much, and studied too hard. I am really out of
sorts; never mind me! Please hand me those foreign letters, love."
Miriam was unfolding and examining them; but all in a cold, stony,
unnatural way.
"Paul," she asked, "wasn't it just eight years this spring since your
brother went to Scotland to fetch you?"
"Yes; why?"
"Wasn't it to Glasgow that he went?"
"Yes; why?"
"Were not you there together in March and April, 182-?"
"Once more, yes! Why do you inquire?"
"Because all these foreign letters directed to Marian are postmarked
Glasgow, and dated March or April, 182-."
With a low, stifled cry, and a sudden spring, he snatched the packet
from her hand, tore open the first letter that presented itself, and ran
his strained, bloodshot eyes down the lines. Half-suppressed, deep
groans like those wrung by torture from a strong man's heart, burst from
his pale lips, and great drops of sweat gathered on his agonized
forehead.
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