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. "Can't you speak?" "I don't choose," replied Thames, sturdily; "and your brutality shan't make me. “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands. Wood, in equal trepidation.
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