She opened it and imbibed. "You've won your wager. I heard John was talking about you again from Jenny McIntyre. His glance came up again and met hers. 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. " "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son. Anna glanced into her sister’s face, and rose to her feet. “He looks as though he did, at any rate.
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