Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. ” She looked at him, pleading, miserable in her fancy gown. She fluttered her eyelashes, and adopted the soulful tone that served her well at times. This species of madness cannot properly be attributed to his illness, though its accent might be. He parried without apparent effort. He took her there on the cold, dirty floor, his nails digging into her back, his teeth sinking into her breasts. 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. ’ ‘Alone, miss?’ ‘Certainly alone. The hills surrounded her cave home protectively. I had never dreamed of such a friend as you.
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