‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. 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. He drew a little breath of relief. I didn’t understand before that letter.
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