They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. She snapped out of her blissful state and looked at him squarely in the eyes. “Well?” she said. 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. He felt her observance and warmed to it. His tone was kind and sympathetic. "I never wear false whiskers," went on O'Higgins. "Before to-morrow morning I will ascertain what has become of Thames, or perish in the attempt. The sergeant had not seen it for he understood nothing of what she told him.
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