He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. We must wave our hands at the blue hills far away there and go back to London and work. 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. Before an hour had elapsed, the concourse was fearfully increased.
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