Dim possibilities that she would not seem to look at even to herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind. 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. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. He felt that he was getting on with her very slowly indeed, but he did not see how he could get on faster.
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