As Wood obeyed, his foot slipped; and, casting his eyes upon the floor, he perceived it splashed in several places with blood. ‘I have told you I will take Jacques. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. ” He adjusted his glasses on his nose. 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.
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