Page:Confessions of a wife (IA confessionsofwif00adamiala).pdf/60

I don't think I will write any more to-night. I'm ashamed to. I don't know what I might say, I'm afraid the Accepted Manuscript would reject me altogether if I should once let myself go and offer it any such copy as comes pouring upon this paper, hot and fast, like the drops of my heart's blood. I'll shut the book and go to bed.

I can't do it. I've got as far as my hair and my slippers—and my white gown (for it is such a warm night, and no moon, just that sultry darkness which smothers the breath out of you, soul and body)—the gown with elbow-sleeves and the Valenciennes yoke. It is rather pretty. Nobody ever sees me in it but Maggie; only once in a while when Father rings, and I run down in a hurry. Maggie thinks it is becoming; but Father asked me if I did n't take cold in it. I 've always been fond of this gown. Sometimes I wish the sleeves were longer.

Now I think of it, I must have been out of my right mind. I shall have to write and tell him so. I wonder if it was n't a sunstroke? I was out at noon, in the garden, rather long to-day. They say people do such queer things after sun-