Manning would on no account do, though he was tall and dark and handsome and kind, and thirty-five and adequately prosperous, and all that a husband should be. 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. "Your business, Sir?" returned the other, stiffly. Loneliness. He was not able to recognize, as the doctor did, that she was only a natural woman. Don't shake so. The Bed Room 400 XIX. I understand. She has never done a really ignoble thing that I know of— never.
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