The quarry had passed out into the open sea. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. “My friend,” she said, “I have been your pupil for two years. But "fine" is the word. "I'm surprised you've not asked that question before, Sir Rowland. 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. Byby.
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