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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. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. Madame Valade was that kind of woman. The curtain before one mystery was torn aside, and she saw in reality what lay behind the impulse that had led her into the young man's room. ” Anna drummed impatiently with her fingers against the arm of her chair. He was a little embarrassed.
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