Paris, 18. Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. 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. Nothing was given away, and no one came so rich to the stall as to command all that it had to offer. Let me bind you up, and then you can attend to her.
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