“How crude you are, Anna!” she exclaimed with a little sigh. ‘How could I know that it is you?’ She peered at him in the darkness. ’ ‘The nuns?’ she said, gazing at him innocently. . I do not even know his name. 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.
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