Every one else does. \" They talked until midnight most nights. Opposite to her was a sallow-visaged young man, whose small tie seemed like a smudge of obtusively shiny black across the front of a high close-drawn collar. She could not see any relief from this anxiety except repayment, and repayment seemed impossible. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. \" She said. 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. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony.
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