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since Ella has been trying to remarry me. But when one writes, and has a son——" I could talk no more.

"You are tired now."

"I am always tired. Why do you say years? You mean months, surely?"

"You will write one more book."

"Still harping on Margaret?"

"Let me carry you into your room; I have so often carried her."

"Physically at least I am a bigger woman than she was."

"A little heavier, not much."

"Well, give me your arm, help me. I don't need to be carried." I leaned on his arm. "We will talk more about your Margaret another day. I dare-say I shall write her story. Not using all the letters, people are bored with letters. I am myself. And I am not sure about the copyright acts!"

"You will give them back to me when you have done with them?"

"Why not?"

Benham bullied him for having let me sit up so late. My illness was deepening upon me so quietly, so imperceptibly that I had forgotten I once resented her overbearing ways. Now I depended on her for many things. Suzanne had gone, finding the house too triste, and seeing no possibility of further emolument from my neglected wardrobe. Benham did