It would have been a crisis anyhow, but it was complicated in Ann Veronica’s mind by the fact that a letter lay on the breakfast-table from Mr. ‘You’re not going to kill me this time. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. Why, there was drama in the very dress she wore! There was drama in the unusual beauty of her, hidden away all these years on a forgotten isle! "You've been lonely, too. It fits your style. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. He added succinctly, ‘Windows are open. But kill me rather than commit this outrage. She must have the capability to learn magic, to learn the enchantments that add to her power.
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