“But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. ” A shade of concern darkened Carol Diedermayer’s face. She could not resist enduing persons she met with the noble attributes of the fictional characters. 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. “I am a fool,” he said.
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