"There'll be a louder echo here presently," thought Jonathan. “You would believe that life is kindled by the passions alone. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident. It's gin—a liquor you used to like. A certain irritation crept into his manner as he did so. And when I ask you why it is you do so, you have no answer. ‘En tout cas, it is not reasonable that I could be at all in love with him. He looked about for his hat, and put it on.
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