I think not, Annabel. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength. 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. "Medicine cannot save mo now.
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