She stole a few glances at John as she stood and played the pieces. “Will they worry about you getting caught in a storm?” She asked him as she viewed black clouds floating in different directions. 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. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken.
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