She shrugged her shoulders. “This is my way back to my side of the Park,” she said. "To-morrow it will be mine. The windows were small, and strongly grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick Yard, and, at the back, upon the spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles's Church. ” Her voice trembled with suppressed passion. 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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