Tomorrow about this time #997417

The letter lay on the top of the pile of mail on the old mahogany desk, a square envelope of thick parchment with high, dashing handwriting and faint, subtle fragrance.
The man saw it the instant he entered the room. It gave him a sick dull thrust like an unexpected blow in the solar plexus. He had come back to the home of his childhood after hard years to rest, and here was this!
It was from his former wife, Lilla, and no word from her in all the twelve years since their divorce had ever brought anything but disgust and annoyance.
He half turned toward the door with an impulse of retreat, but thought better of it and stalked over to the desk, tearing open the envelope roughly as if to have the worst over quickly. It began abruptly, as Lilla would. He could see the white jewelled fingers flying across the page, the half flippant fling of the pen. Somehow the very tilt of the letters as she had formed them contrived to give the taunting inflection of her voice as he read: