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. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. Shoplatch. Where the devil have you hidden all those weapons? Don’t tell me you’ve got ’em with you. There are only a few jobs over here for a man of your type; and even these are more or less hopeless if you haven't trained mechanical ability.
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