His first reaction had been explosive as the hurts of the past rose up to taunt him. 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. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. “Life—things—I don’t think her prospects now—Hopeful outlook. ’ ‘Damnation!’ ‘What the devil ails you?’ demanded his friend, striding forward. Her natural instincts reasserted themselves.
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