“With each of his letters I fell more in love with him. But I couldn’t tell him. If I said I was old enough to marry and his question had only been the continuation of a good joke, he would be horribly embarrassed and our easy friendship would be ruined. He might stop writing, which I couldn’t endure. If he wasn’t jesting, it was for him to say so. Until then or never, I treasured our correspondence.”
“The sister could have no reason to lie to me. If Ella and I had married, she would only gain. But Ella’s note convinced me in the end. It was in her hand, and the last phrase about smiling at her jewels and laughing at the world was certainly her own. … She charmed me as easily as she did the ogres. … But her letters were the greatest deception of all. She seemed so good-hearted.”
“Char was looking at me with such gladness, and I loved him so. I was the cause of his joy and would be the cause of his destruction: a secret delivered to his enemies, a letter written in my own hand, a covert signal given by me, poison in his glass, a dagger in his ribs, a fall from a parapet.”
“I’ll write to you. You shall know all my doings. Will you write to me in return?” “Yes, but I’ll have no doings, or few. I shall invent, and you’ll have to decide what is real.”
“Marry me, Ella,” he said again, the order a whisper now. “Say you’ll marry me.” Anyone else could have said yes or no. This wasn’t a royal command. Char probably had no idea he’d given an order.”