"Where are you going?" she asked. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. A siphon and a whisky bottle stood before him. 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. At any rate, he began to deliberately personate him. .
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