It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. “My dad is into this stuff. Would you tell her … now?" his eyes flaming with mockery. In the matter of his conscience he was primitive; and for an educated man to become primitive is to become something of a child. It had ceased now, but as he closed in on the area, a faint muttering came to his ears. Edgeworth Bess and Poll Maggot are dying to see you.
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