His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength. Yes. 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. The McCloskeys had picked Lucy from a bunch of children languishing at the Illinois Christian Home for Children. There was a sharp knocking at the outside door. .
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