” He was suddenly resentful. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. It does not matter to him either way. And as for not knowing me, you abominable little liar, you’re perfectly aware that we met at Remenham House. She accepted his rejoinder with a brief nod. An influence of this description appeared to be exerted on the present occasion. He contrasted the lot of women in general with the lot of men, presented men as patient, self-immolating martyrs, and women as the pampered favorites of Nature. But Jonathan was not to be deterred.
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