He reached over and took her hand. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. Ennison seemed to feel already the shadow of tragedy approaching. 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. " "By the name of The Tigress?" The doctor smiled, but shook his head.
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