“Very well,” he said. Yet the thing hidden within her called and called. She had grabbed! She became less and less attentive to his meditative, self-complacent fragments of talk as she told herself this. Thought she was a nun at first. "Oh! that was all, was it?" said the turnkey, quietly reseating himself. Wood; but they never come now. The next moment he was by her side. His hand fell lightly to her chest where her heart was 211 beating, almost tenderly. 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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