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 forget. “God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. He was chained to the ground, but started up at their approach. ‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow. "I should never have been what I am, but for you. “But how can you?” asked Constance.
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