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. And, turning to his daughter, he gave the necessary directions in a low tone. “Yes, I remember,” she said. A pair of long-lashed blue eyes studied them both as she slowly brought her hands down to rest by her sides. You disgust me.
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