“That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. Clotilde rushed out of the house, carrying her boy and tugging her girl by the ear. 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. The other was to go into business—into a photographer’s reception-room, for example, or a costumer’s or hat-shop.
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