But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. The immense disillusionment that awaited him! The devastating disillusionment! She had a vague desire to run after him, to state her case to him, to wring some understanding from him of what life was to her. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. Taking her limbs was the only thing I could do short of killing her.
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