He walked through a wide open archway, curtained with deep-blue curtains, into the apartment that served as a reception-room. “It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. 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. Stanley.
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