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. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. He wondered if these abnormal mental activities presaged illness. Supposing the wire should break and her head tumble off her shoulders into the street? The whimsey caused another smile to ripple across her lips. I should feel that I had been obliged to find some one else to fight my battles for me. That’s my advice.
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