“Or from some other person.”
“What a curious idea. You think we cannot ever do anything without finding an imitator! I don't like to imagine it. I don't fancy that there can ever, in the history of the world, be an exact repetition of our feeling, our doing, to-night.”
“Yet, there may be. Who knows?”
“I do. Instinct tells me there never can. There has never been, never will be, any woman with a heart just like mine, given to a man just in the same way as mine is given to you. Why should you think such a hateful thing?”
“I don't know. It was only an idea that occurred to me.”
And again he glanced towards the lighted windows.
“The world is very full of echoes,” he went on; “our troubles are repeated.”
“But not our joys, our deepest joys. No, no, never!”
“There have always been lovers, and they all act in much the same way!”