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. Hill closed his eyes. She drew in a deep breath of the sweet mountain air. I’m sorry. The rogue took everything we had. She described it so vividly. It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone.
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