'And yet I know nothing for sure,' he kept repeating to himself. 'Arthur
is expecting Gretchen, whoever she may be. He says he has written to
her, and he has one of his presentiments that she is coming on the night
when this woman arrives, who is no more like the Gretchen he raves about
than I am. This woman has a child. He says Gretchen has none, and that
he never saw this woman. And yet I find among the things a photograph
exactly like the picture in the window, and also like the child, who
certainly bears a resemblance to my brother, though no one else,
perhaps, would see it. Now, sir,' he appeared to be addressing himself
to some person unseen, from whom he shrank, for he drew himself as far
as was possible to his side of the sleigh and shivered as he went on:
'Now, sir, is that sufficient proof to warrant me in turning everything
topsy-turvy, and making Arthur crazier than he is?'
'Certainly not,' he seemed to hear in reply, either from within or
without, he hardly knew which, and he went on:
'I shall try to find out who the woman was, and where she came from; but
how am I to do it? how begin? Arthur will not tell me a word about
Gretchen, who she is, or what she is to him. Still, I mean to be on the
safe side, and do right by the child.
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