Paintings sold off the walls. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. 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. . He had seldom been more perturbed. The latch had not fully caught. Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. ‘Oh, I do love a flatterer.
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