Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. 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. She heard him come in; the light burned on. She drank it obediently. She leaped suddenly at a desperate resolution, and in one moment had made it into a new self. We made sure it was just like Gwen. I tried painting and couldn’t get on.
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