And if you let those horrid Russians hurt you, I will hate you as long as I live, and be miserable all my life afterwards." "Why, Valencia, do you know, that sounds very like a bull ?" "Am I not a wild Irish girl ?" said she, and hurried out, leaving Scoutbush to return to his flies.
She bounded into Lucia's room, there to pour out a bursting heart--and stopped short.
Lucia was sitting on the bed, her shawl and bonnet tossed upon the floor, her head sunk on her bosom, her arms sunk by her side.
"Lucia, what is it?
Speak to me, Lucia!" She pointed faintly to a letter on the floor--Valencia caught it up-- Lucia made a gesture as if to stop her.
"No, you must not read it.

Too dreadful!" But Valencia read it; while Lucia covered her face in her hands, and uttered a long, low, shuddering moan of bitter agony.
Valencia read, with flashing eyes and bursting brow.

It was a hideous letter.

The words of a man trying to supply the place of strength by virulence.

A hideous letter, unfit to be written here.
"Valencia! Valencia! It is false--a mistake--he is dreaming.