For yonder went the loneliest man in all God's unhappy world. “It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. At length, when he saw no escape from the inevitable, he took the four title pages from the manuscripts and typed new ones, substituting Taber for Spurlock. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. ‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten.
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