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The twists in his brain had suddenly straightened out; he was normal, wholly himself; and he knew now exactly what he had done. “You—appear to know my name, sir,” Sir John said. Analysis would come later, when the primitive conscience, satisfied, would cease to dominate his thought and action. 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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