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. She was trying to bring her problems to a head, and her mind insisted upon being even more discursive and atmospheric than usual. He patted the hand on his sleeve. She addressed Anna with a beaming smile and a very creditable mixture of condescension and officiousness. Its very calmness was frightful. No, this was imbecile. ‘She’s still bleeding.
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