No window. The law would accord her all her previous rights: she would return to the exact status out of which in his madness he had taken her. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. Grandmothers and grandfathers and uncles and aunts … to love and to coddle lonely little girls. She no more realizes what she has done than a child of eight. It was on the eve of that memorable rebellion which broke forth, two months later, in Scotland. ‘Wait! At least tell me where I can find you.
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