A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. "Here are a pair of gloves and a nosegay for you. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. 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.
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