‘Do you think I could endure to hear you prattling your abominable French in my ear day by day? Enough to drive me straight into my grave. It was late before Jonathan ventured to his own house, where he remained up all night, and kept his janizaries and other assistants well armed. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. We’ll have some buttered toast. ‘En tout cas, it is not reasonable that I could be at all in love with him.
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