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. ‘Certainly this is true,’ she managed. Wood's," said the latter, "since I find him at his own gate. She doesn't understand; she believes he has taken a sudden dislike to her. I don’t know that I understand altogether. ‘I do not mind to pray, no. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly.
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