His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. Once before—but that had been different. ‘He’d have been that happy if he’d known how you’re the spit of her, miss. I understand nothing of what you say. " "Better eat these, even if you don't want them," she urged. 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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