To-morrow night —or rather to-night, for we are fast verging on another day—I propose to lure him out of the house by a stratagem which I am sure will prove infallible; and, then, what so easy as to knock him on the head. Do not underestimate my power. “But your hair,” he gasped. A brief calm succeeded. “Here’s something rather good,” he said, and with a start and an effort she took his place at the microscope, while he stood beside her and almost leaning over her. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time. A forgotten island beyond the ship lanes, where that grim Hand would falter and move blindly in its search for him! From what he had read, there wouldn't be much to do; and in the idle hours he could write. There were lines in her face that age had not put there. It’s got to be at last like tobacco-ash over all my sayings and doings. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter.
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