Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. After some time, the scuffle grew more and more distant, until nothing could be heard. 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. What was she going to do? One main idea possessed her: she must get away from home, she must assert herself at once or perish. .
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