And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. "Poor Mrs. I have now settled my affairs, and made every preparation for my departure to France, where I shall spend the remainder of my days. ‘Must be still downstairs. My first visit will be to you. “Where is she?” He would yell even louder until she was sure that people in faraway fishing boats could probably hear him.
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