With a
beating heart she went out to post the letter herself, and as it
dropped into the pillarbox, she prayed softly to "God."
A trying fortnight ensued. She ate nothing, hardly closed her eyes,
and spent her days in solitude.
When Saturday came and the paper was delivered, she trembled as if she
were fever-stricken, and when she found that her verses were neither
printed nor mentioned in "Letters to Correspondents," she almost broke
down.
On the following Saturday, when she could count on an answer with some
certainty, she slipped the paper into her pocket without unfolding it,
and went into the woods. When she had arrived at a secluded spot and
made sure that no one was watching her, she unfolded the paper and
hastily glanced at the contents. One poem only was printed, entitled
_Bellman's-day_. She turned to "Letters to Correspondents." Her first
glance at the small print made her start violently. Her fingers
clutched the paper, rolled it into a ball and flung it into the
underwood. Then she stared, fascinated, at the ball of white,
glimmering through the green undergrowth. For the first time in her
life she had received an insult. She was completely unnerved. This
unknown journalist had dared what nobody had dared before: he had been
rude to her.
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