"Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. “Contrarily, you are sitting on a sepulcher of death! It 30 is only a matter of time before the Pestilence strikes here again, Gianfrancesco. 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 closed her eyes more vividly to recall some line which had carried the blot. ’ ‘Your plan, then.
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