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. She laughed softly, and leaned across the table. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. He had found Spurlock. A remittance man. I have discovered something of her background.
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