THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
cation I speak of can't possibly belong—so far as its date is concerned—to these last days. The post mark, which is legible, does; but it isn't thinkable, for anything else, that she wrote———" He dropped, looking at her as if she would understand.
It was easy to understand. "On her deathbed?" But Kate took an instant's thought. "Aren't we agreed that there was never any one in the world like her?"
"Yes." And looking over her head he spoke clearly enough. "There was never any one in the world like her."
Kate from her chair, always without a movement, raised her eyes to the unconscious reach of his own. Then, when the latter again dropped to her, she added a question. "And won't it, further, depend a little on what the communication is?"
"A little perhaps—but not much. It's a communication," said Densher.
"Do you mean a letter?"
"Yes, a letter. Addressed to me in her hand—in hers unmistakably."
Kate thought. "Do you know her hand very well?"
"Oh, perfectly."
It was as if his tone for this prompted—with a slight strangeness—her next demand. "Have you had many letters from her?"
"No. Only three notes." He spoke looking straight at her. "And very, very short ones."
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