“Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. “It spreads like wildfire. "What do you think of your nephew, Sir Rowland?" whispered Jonathan, who sat with his back towards Thames, so that his features were concealed from the youth's view. I think that you might break Martin’s heart if you don’t. Horrible details recurred to her. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them.
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