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. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. Do so; and I am yours as heretofore. Visible underneath his collar were some metal tags. He gurgled as if trying to communicate. Manning central in her mind.
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