Drink this!” He poured out a glass of wine with a firm hand, and held it to her lips. “She has one, that’s why. 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. And then if some day Capes wanted her—saw fit to alter his views upon friendship. “Will you tell Sydney that I will see him in the morning,” he said.
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