” She yelled. "Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. For a few minutes all was silent. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. The man’s passion became almost unbearable at the thought of losing her. She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. Yet he was in a state of hopeless bewilderment. ‘Certainly you must have seen her. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. ” And she pressed her lips together in white resolution and nodded, and she was manifestly full of that same passion for conflict and selfsacrifice that has given the world martyrs since the beginning of things.
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