He delayed the blow till the fortunate conjuncture was past. In the subdued light she could not tell whether he was asleep or awake. 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 leaned over and kissed his cheek innocently. Manning, “when I see beautiful things, or else I want to weep.
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