“I have made no progress with my work,” she said slowly, “and the money was gone. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. 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. I'm going to be frank; we must have a clear understanding. Well, this was the side of the world where things like that happened.
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