She went to a writing-desk and made some memoranda on a sheet of note-paper, and then remembered that she had no address as yet to which letters could be sent. He was sickeningly aroused by their hands as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Sometimes I think she’s tired of us. The air was thick with feelings. He was followed by a great pile of black organs, hers, her female parts. 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.
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