‘Sapristi,’ he gasped. But this is like—like walking round a house that looks square and complete and finding an unexpected long wing running out behind. He patted the hand on his sleeve. 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. “Who wouldn’t be for you?” The train began to move. She said you HAD some money. You don’t want to miss the sport.
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