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. ‘What?’ Roding snapped, coming quickly to tower above the window seat. It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. He stabbed into her with brute force. He installed Anna in a comfortable easy chair, and placed his own between her and the door.
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