She treaded down the hall swiftly but stopped abruptly when she heard a voice in back of her. He hated travelling second-class with her—indeed, he never did—but he also disliked travelling in the same train when his daughter was in an inferior class, because of the look of the thing. “Have some more port wine, sir?” “It’s a very sound wine,” said Mr. 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. .
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