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“At a boarding-house?” he gasped. “I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally. 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. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful.
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