He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. "How is the patient?" he asked. 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 you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. The cloth nearly touches the floor.
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