Thought she was a nun at first. She had not noticed such beauty in many years, and it almost caused her to weep. But the aunt seized her in her arms and rocked with her. “I must explain to her. 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. The individual twist was always there, even in the cleverest forgeries. Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals.
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