He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood. A shudder rippled across his shoulders. Ann Veronica hesitated with a question that had leaped up in her mind, and that she felt was cruel. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. The Night-Cellar XVIII.
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