The satisfaction of cheating Death again. He was consumed with desire. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. With the broken links of the chain, which served him in lieu of more efficient implements, he commenced operations just above the chimney-piece, and soon contrived to pick a hole in the plaster. It was warm, shielding, comforting, and what was more, full of understanding. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully.
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