I got a rusty bolt cutter. A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world. She responded as he slipped his hands under her sweater. 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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