So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. She felt him sometimes at night as he called to her in her dreams. Spurlock looked up. "And yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me. She no more realizes what she has done than a child of eight.
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