Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. ‘Of course. "How are you off there, Shoplatch?" inquired Kneebone. The Times slipped from his fingers. She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. 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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