You helped to attend dear Lucy at the end. Let me hear how she died;
for all that I know of her, I shall be very grateful. She was very, very
dear to me.
To my surprise, he answered, with a horrorstruck look in his face:--
Tell you of her death? Not for the wide world!
Why not? I asked, for some grave, terrible feeling was coming over me.
Again he paused, and I could see that he was trying to invent an excuse.
At length he stammered out:--
You see, I do not know how to pick out any particular part of the
diary. Even while he was speaking an idea dawned upon him, and he said
with unconscious simplicity, in a different voice, and with the naivete
of a child: That s quite true, upon my honour. Honest Indian! I could
not but smile, at which he grimaced. I gave myself away that time! he
said. But do you know that, although I have kept the diary for months
past, it never once struck me how I was going to find any particular
part of it in case I wanted to look it up? By this time my mind was
made up that the diary of a doctor who attended Lucy might have
something to add to the sum of our knowledge of that terrible Being, and
I said boldly:--
Then, Dr. Seward, you had better let me copy it out for you on my
typewriter. He grew to a positively deathly pallor as he said:--
No! no! no! For all the world, I wouldn t let you know that terrible
story!
Then it was terrible; my intuition was right! For a moment I thought,
and as my eyes ranged the room, unconsciously looking for something or
some opportunity to aid me, they lit on a great batch of typewriting on
the table. His eyes caught the look in mine, and, without his thinking,
followed their direction. As they saw the parcel he realised my meaning.
You do not know me, I said. When you have read those papers--my own
diary and my husband s also, which I have typed--you will know me
better. I have not faltered in giving every thought of my own heart in
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