As soon as he was gone, Jonathan went up stairs to the audience-chamber; and, sitting down, appeared for some time buried in reflection. He stole his chance and thrust his hand towards hers. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. It disgusts me that you should touch me. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control.
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