He was nearly wincing. “So what is John up to today?” Lucy asked with a weary smile. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. She came very near that night to resolving that she would return to her home next morning. And if you mean that he may have reconciled himself with his own father, you waste your breath. 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. She drew a long breath. ‘But I will tell you this, mon vieux. It’s all right.
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