There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. ‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in. If she has no children, she goes on loving her husband; but he is no longer a man but a child. 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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