The evenings were dulcet and soft. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. "You see?" Ruth said. "But never mind who, or what I am. ” “And you?” Annabel exclaimed. Her lips parted, but no words came. Last night Mr.
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