“I wrote it for you. A dozen shynesses and intellectual barriers were being outflanked or broken down in her mind. A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. 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. The oaken beam, nine inches in thickness, was now the sole but most formidable obstacle to his flight.
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