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. “I saw—they knocked off your fetters yesterday. ’ ‘You certain? She’s a thought too volatile for my money. It brought no coconut. Mark you, she wasn’t the only one. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. Blank it was, except for a gate near the bridgehead.
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