He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. Yet she never once thought of changing it. 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. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death.
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