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. If he keeps his word, I'll keep mine. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. Those were dreams. “As she asked!” “It is already too late. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her.
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