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 few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. Maggot, dealing him a blow, which stretched him senseless on the floor. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. “Can’t stop, thanks,” he answered. ’ He shifted unguardedly, and hissed a breath, wincing. III.
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