It's almost worth while being sent to prison to have the pleasure of escaping. 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. A nod was exchanged. She thought of Capes. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. Bu I can speak to that point. Her amusement fled and she stared at him, as a slow thump began beating at her breast. She cocked her head. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. Be honest, and you will be happy.
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