She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. 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. I shall like to think of it—whenever I feel dull. Don’t ask me how. She tried to scream, \"I'm coming to you, Mama!\" But no sound would come from her mouth.
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