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William
Forrester
walked
across
the
garden
one
early
August
afternoon
to
find
Helen
Loomis
writing
with
great
care
at
the
tea
table
.
She
put
aside
her
pen
and
ink
.
"
I
’
ve
been
writing
you
a
letter
,
"
she
said
.
"
Well
,
my
being
here
saves
you
the
trouble
.
"
"
No
,
this
is
a
special
letter
.
Look
at
it
.
"
She
showed
him
the
blue
envelope
,
which
she
now
sealed
and
pressed
flat
.
"
Remember
how
it
looks
.
When
you
receive
this
in
the
mail
,
you
’
ll
know
I
’
m
dead
.
"
"
That
’
s
no
way
to
talk
,
is
it
?
"
"
Sit
down
and
listen
to
me
.
"
He
sat
.
"
My
dear
William
,
"
she
said
,
under
the
parasol
shade
.
"
In
a
few
days
I
will
be
dead
.
No
.
"
She
put
up
her
hand
.
"
I
don
’
t
want
you
to
say
a
thing
.
I
’
m
not
afraid
.
When
you
live
as
long
as
I
’
ve
lived
you
lose
that
,
too
.
I
never
liked
lobster
in
my
life
,
and
mainly
because
I
’
d
never
tried
it
.
On
my
eightieth
birthday
I
tried
it
.
I
can
’
t
say
I
’
m
greatly
excited
over
lobster
still
,
but
I
have
no
doubt
as
to
its
taste
now
,
and
I
don
’
t
fear
it
.
I
dare
say
death
will
be
a
lobster
,
too
,
and
I
can
come
to
terms
with
it
.
"
She
motioned
with
her
hands
.
"
But
enough
of
that
.
The
important
thing
is
that
I
shan
’
t
be
seeing
you
again
.
There
will
be
no
services
.
I
believe
that
a
woman
who
has
passed
through
that
particular
door
has
as
much
right
to
privacy
as
a
woman
who
has
retired
for
the
night
.
"
"
You
can
’
t
predict
death
,
"
he
said
at
last
.
