For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. You give her a daub here and there where the rust shows. " "Loved me! You!" "I loved you," continued Jonathan, "and struck by your appearance, which seemed above your station, inquired your history, and found you had been stolen by a gipsy in Lancashire. Rather would I have gone with Leonardo—and he wished me to do so. How could you draw the curtain aside which hides the great and holy places of life—you, who have never loved?” “You have become French to the core,” she murmured.
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