’ ‘That’s fortunate,’ murmured Lucilla. 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. A simple wooden monument was placed over the grave, but without any name or date. A creeping numbness invaded her. ’ The woman shrugged helpless shoulders, looking to her husband.
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