"You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. She wasn’t sure of herself when she said it. 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. She would flee to the wild fastnesses, the places where there were no overarching systems of any use, where she could blend with the unstable populace and kill in relative peace. ‘Idiot. A faint buzz above the ceiling witnessed that petrography, too, was active.
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