She said she thought the governor had forgotten that he had sent me here
--as now I hope he had, for that would be one thing less for him to think
of, when he set out on the journey where the only weight man carries is
the packload of his sins. She also said that she had written to me twice
after we parted at Lachine, but had never heard a word, and three years
afterwards she had gone to India. The letters were lost, I suppose,
on the way to me, somehow--who can tell? Then came another thing, so
strange, that it seemed like the laughter of the angels at us. These
were her words: 'And, dear Mr. Fawdor, you were both wrong in that
quotation, as you no doubt discovered long ago.' Then she gave me the
sentence as it is in Cymbeline. She was right, quite right. We were
both wrong. Never till her letter came had I looked to see. How vain,
how uncertain, and fallible, is man!"
Pierre dropped his cigarette, and stared at Fawdor. "The knowledge of
books is foolery," he said slowly.
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