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. I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer. ‘Exactement. I require stimulant. Probably something he had eaten. "No, no, let him alone," interposed Wood.
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