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 herself aloof from him, as she had succeeded, without any conscious effort, in holding herself aloof from other men, but her instinctive desire was so fervid that she did not know what she might do if she met him; she could not know. An unreasoning passion controlled her: her will was crumbling. At present, she was fully aware, she half-belonged to some one else, a state of affairs which she did not condone—rather, she loathed it—but over which, in the circumstances, she held no sway, nor could she anticipate any hope of recovery from this abhorrent emotional ailment save through a providential coincidence that would bring Gunnar before her eyes again. He had obviously run away. A man who would jump out of a window to evade a danger, at best only potential, was perfectly capable of jumping into a river or an ocean to conclusively end his panic. The simpler expedient of putting an ocean between him and the object of his fright might also have occurred to him. The consequence of the situation was that Campaspe hovered between a state of rude impatience and a feeling of impotence that possessed her with a tormenting rage. That her happiness should rest thus, even temporarily, in another's keeping was sufficient cause to infuriate her. She coveted then, with an eager ardour, this opportunity for one more meeting which—and on this point she was firmly determined—should ultimately settle the terms of their relationship.

In this hitherto unexperienced mood she derived