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” The lights were lowered, and an attentive waiter hovered round Anna’s cloak. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. He tries hard to conceal it, but he cannot. 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. “Won’t you give me your address?” She shook her head. " "It is false," cried Mrs.
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