The door leaned inward. You did not say a word about it last week, nor have you written. You steered and I rowed stroke. "You're not out yet, you young hound," rejoined Quilt, striving ineffectually to burst open the door. 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. Apart from everything else, this meeting of ours is a breach of a good rule.
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