Like most of Grant's
notions, it was infernally clever. It suggested that my marriage to
Nanca had been childless and that we had brought a child--the daughter
of Theodomir and Nanca--away from the Indian village and had reared her
with my name. Then he showed me with a laugh where three conflicting
meanings might be read from the stilted phrasing and eccentric
punctuation.
"Drop that, old man," said he, "into your chauvinistic little Punch and
Judy court along with the name of the missing Theodomir and watch the
blaze!"
After all, I do not think we will stay here in New York. Nanca is not
at all well. She longs for trees and the open country. We are coming
up to the lodge.
* * * * * *
I'm glad Dad sent for you. I think he is growing fonder of Carl,
though of course his prejudices will probably always flash out now and
then. . . . He's fond of us both, Ann, for all he raves so. No word
of Grant since that night of which you told me. . . . I am sorry.
* * * * * *
You tell me Grant has written to you. Tell him when you write--to
write to me. I miss him.
* * * * * *
Grant has sent me a giant pair of candlesticks from Spain. They are
six feet tall, of age-old wood and Spanish carving.
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