It was a pity he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within the year. 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. The Night-Cellar XVIII. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. He seemed to possess infinite reserves of patience when she refused him or purposely tried to bait and anger him, but his patience only made him seem more sinister.
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