“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. 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. But I don't look for peace on this side the grave. " "I'll ring for one," replied Kneebone, rising accordingly; "but I fear my servants are gone to bed. That—that isn’t living! You are beside yourself.
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