She was on the rim of civilization, entering, as Spurlock was on the rim, preparing to make his exit. She felt this was the sensible way out of this oddly sinister situation. 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. They were the same. "Now, Jack," cried Thames, warmly grasping Sheppard's hand, "you are my friend again. .
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