He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. "I thought I heard a scream. “What the devil are you doing star-gazing here?” Ennison looked at him in surprise. Wood. 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. “Why should one pretend? “Think of all the beauty in the world that is covered up and overlaid. There it is. She opened it and imbibed.
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