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. He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still. "Well, who'd have thought of Shotbolt beating us all in this way!" said Ireton. Later that night, after she had cleaned herself and changed her clothes, he returned. ‘Never. Courtlaw for his true verdict, and he gave it me.
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