She calls him a pig, and she says he ain’t Valade. 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. "That's a glorious reward. ‘What would you? The nuns they would not believe me, and so it was not possible for me to stay. . She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness.
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