"No," replied Jonathan, moodily. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten that much in my entire life, Lucy, and that’s saying something. They hunted up shady nooks and went to sleep; but promptly at four they would be at the office, ready for barter. 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. Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something.
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