A farthing candle, stuck in a bottle neck, shed its feeble light upon the table, which, owing to the provident kindness of Mr. She was crushed with a sense of her own terrible impotency. Sister Angelina shook her head as if to say that such ignorance was beyond her. We’re different. 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.
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