Yet you make our Bohemianism seem like a vulgar thing. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. His fingers closed upon her hand. The first stroke appeared to arouse all the vindictive passions of Jonathan. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. The curtain before one mystery was torn aside, and she saw in reality what lay behind the impulse that had led her into the young man's room.
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