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 think he got sick of us and he disappeared not one week later. After all, if one could wait twenty years or more in between bouts of lovemaking, one could certainly wait a few more days. Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. Taking the direction pointed out, he rode off.
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