She walked straight across to the wardrobe and opened it. Sheppard. 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. “You mean to tell me” he said, “that you have a lover? While I have been keeping you! Yes—keeping you!” This view of life he hurled at her as if it were an offensive missile. “It was,” she admitted.
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