He put down his hat and umbrella, rested his hands on his hips, and regarded Ann Veronica firmly. I thought he was in Newgate. Never again to be alone! To fit herself into this man's life as a hand into a glove; to use all her skill to force him into the position of depending upon her utterly; to be the spark to the divine fire! He should have his book, even if it had to be written with her heart's blood. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. ‘He isn’t Valade, and the Comtesse de St Erme is absolutely furious. He's down in Patagonia somewhere.
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