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WBbened the door— and there he stood, grinning. I was #00 amazed to speak. At last I managed, "Why Tom Trumble!"
behind it, I tried to assure myself that it was thoughtlessness, and nothing more. Nothing more than being in a hurry, than having a great deal on his mind, than — than what? It wouldn't do. There was more to it than that. Perhaps — well, perhaps the "something unexpected" was named Diana Stuart. And then that was something more to worry about, to frighten me— who was Diana Stuart and how much did she really mean to my husband?
I just don't believe it when I hear
women say that they aren't jealous. If you're not a little jealous, you just don't really care, I think. And jealousy was a nasty little devil with a little pitchfork — pricking annoyingly at my mind and hurting my heart. But there wasn't anything I could do about it for the moment. I could only go through the motions of being a busy little Washington secretary, of working very hard today and trying to lose myself in my work.
Of course, Dean's neat, frightening little note had asked me to write
him where he could reach me. Write him? Well, what on earth do you say, I asked myself, to the man who has shared his love with you and then gone away?
And I must somehow keep from crying. If I cried, traces of the tears would show, and give my secret away. And what good does it do to cry, anyway, I kept asking myself fiercely. I put my chin up, tried to shake away the fear which sat so heavily on my shoulders.
First of all, I decided, I needed a friend to (Continued on page 85)
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MARCH, 1943
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