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I. 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. “Certainly I was a little way off at the café, and she had a hat and veil on, but I could have sworn that it was ‘Alcide. Was she so fearful still? Roding shrugged and grimaced. And so she came upon the word Love. The simile started a laugh in his throat. Nothing is settled upon.
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