” “No! I’ll explain lower. There were no mourners. “These are her rooms,” she said. That wasn’t even the worst thing. 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. She was not afraid exactly, but there was that about her loneliness to-night she distrusted. Idiote. Too late now.
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