It did not occur to her that they at least had found a way of earning a living, and had that much economic superiority to herself. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. I really must leave you now. Too late, alas, to stop the disastrous marriage. But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened—every wound opened.
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