Your fri—— Venetia.
The letter ended thus with a broken word, not as though she had written all that she might, but as being hindered by lack of space on the torn sheets which may have been all she had.
Angelica read it twice, saying nothing the while. She had pity at what she read, which she did not doubt, but her heart sank that they were to be so troubled again. When she spoke, it was at first only to say: “It is Arabic book,” as she turned the paper, which had been good, but was soiled and torn, and had a brown smear at one place, as of recent blood.
“You will do what she asks?” Francisco enquired, as one who hoped but was less than sure.
“She asks more than enough, and some things that she cannot have.”
“You mean that you will not be her friend at so great a need?”
“I meant less
