The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. She went about the familiar home with a clearer and clearer sense of inevitable conclusions. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. Stanley took the letter and stood with it in his hand thoughtfully for a time. I kept them on myself till the sight of your empty chair and the chill loneliness of it all nearly sent me mad. We married, and for a time we were happy.
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