“How odd that I should almost spring into your arms just on my doorstep!” she remarked gaily. Consent to become my wife, and do not compel me to have recourse to violence to effect my purpose, and I will spare your son. 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. There are also the letters which were scattered about Wild's room after the murder of Sir Rowland. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally.
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