Under the Big Dipper

Now, all he could do was to wait. She had said in her letter that she would write him again a year hence. He read the letter again. No; it said, “when autumn comes.” Ah, well—autumn was not so far off. But oh, if he could but see her for just one minute! He wondered if there was any truth in his friend, Professor Guermot’s theory about thought transference. If only he could send her a telepathic message to say to her: “Helène, Helène, I love you. I am waiting for you, dearest, with my heart in my hand. Time is flying, and I want you—I want you.” Surely, she was somewhere in this wide world where his impassioned thoughts might reach her! Was she happy? Was she well? Perhaps she was in distress and in need! Damn money! Damn fame! If it hadn’t been for that disgusting newspaper everything would have been so different. Fate must have loaded the dice against him, as though she had said to him: “Heads I win, tails you lose.”


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