There was a girlfriend who was mentally ill. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. I am dreadfully sad. She glanced at him and made a dismissive gesture. He had sold half a dozen short tales to thirdrate magazines; but this letter had been issued from a distinguished editorial room, of international reputation. That is why I would not marry this man whom I did and whom I do care for a little. But after a time I learned the ways of the parrakeets, and they would come down to me like doves in the stories. Suddenly she became aware of the fact that he had brought no lunch. They will find me dead, yes. " "Ah, I see. But—but how?’ ‘Can you write?’ Gerald asked, digging into one of his capacious pockets and bringing out a leather ring purse.
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