Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. The freezing water reached her chin and she felt the heat of her body dispersing, creating a disappearing patch of warmth as her limbs froze. 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. Ennison spoke at last.
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