As the fight grew hotter, Quisante
grew greater in her eyes; he had less time to make postures, she less
leisure to criticise; if he forgot himself in what he was doing, she
could come near to forgetting the side of him she disliked in an
admiration of the qualities that attracted her. His praises were in
men's mouths beyond Henstead; letters of congratulation came from great
folk, and Quisante was told that his speeches had more than a local
audience and more than a local influence. Sympathy joined with
admiration; he was not only successful, he was brave; for it was a
serious question whether his body and his nerves would last out, and
every night found him utterly exhausted and prostrate. Yet he never
spared himself, he was wherever work was to be done, refused no call,
and surrendered not an inch to his old and hated enemy, the physical
weakness which had always hindered him. May wrote to Miss Quisante that
he was "wonderful, wonderful, wonderful." There she paused, and added
after a moment's thought, "It's something to be his wife.
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