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. Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee. I don’t half disagree with you, Vee, really; only thing is, I don’t see how you’re going to pull it off. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful.
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