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. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. “Yes?” he said. Moving room to room it was. Michelle had begged her to do it. When the doctor came in—he had just finished his breakfast—O'Higgins rose and presented his card. “It was my sister Anna. I can't bear it.
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