Maybe it’s his loss. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. "God in Heaven!" he cried, "the floor is covered with blood. People sat in unusual pews, and a wide margin of hassocky emptiness intervened between the ceremony and the walls. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. 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. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. Too close, he reasoned, for safety.
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