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. You’ll never see the light of day as long as you live. This done, he let himself carefully down by it, and having only a few feet to drop, alighted in safety. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. He paused at the bamboo curtain of her room, which was in semi-darkness. It's so stuffy—and all that tobacco smoke!" He inspected his watch.
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