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. Just then—I was nervous. Michelle’s eyes opened, her body paralyzed. They had always gone without because of their secret lifestyle. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her.
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