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. "I wonder if you will understand what this kindness means to me? I am so terribly wise—and so wofully ignorant!" CHAPTER XII The doctor shifted his books and magazines to the crook of his elbow. I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. “We will take it then,” he said, “that you have refused or ignored one request I have made you this morning. Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key. Nervously he pulled alongside the dilapidated oncewhite farmhouse. It was a sickening process, and the sucking sound was sure to wake up Ray’s mother.
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