There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. She wants to be free—she wants to be legally and economically free, so as not to be subject to the wrong man; but only God, who made the world, can alter things to prevent her being slave to the right one. "Don't go, I beg of you!" she implored. But, after all, it will be different. "Will you write," asked the doctor, "and tell me how you are getting along?" "Oh, yes!" "The last advice I can give you is this: excite his imagination; get him started with his writing. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava.
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