I could not love you else. ’ ‘Get on, Hilary, do,’ begged Lucilla. 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. ” “It is a conspiracy,” she exclaimed. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice.
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