It was red and chapped. Wait a little; rest. 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. He was aware of Hilary, in company with Lucilla and the comtesse’s daughter some few yards away, listening in suddenly. He gave an order, the proa was floated and the sail run up. It is a lovely little appendage to the mother who smiles over it, and it does things quaintly like her, gestures with her very gestures.
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