"The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. Gianfrancesco ran from the room, tearing at his hair. As far as I can, I belong to them all. “Bother it all!” she swore. 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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