Her eyes still had the fevered glow of sickness, yet she seemed in perfect health. 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. There was nothing to be learned from her face. Sebastian drank deeply and quickly of her blood. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him.
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