But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said. 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. But Jack and his companion were already gone. You cannot care for her. “DON’T!” she said, and wrenched her wrist from his retaining hand.
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