Her mouth was once more covered as they left the second floor guest saloon and headed for the back stairs. “You must pack for me. My reception at West Kensington you know of. She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand. 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. More than this, it would serve to mitigate her own abysmal loneliness to pool it temporarily with his.
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