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. Take the one that struck him at this moment. " Ruth turned back toward the stairs. I hadn’t heard of him before the trial. And the hunter home from the hill. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you. I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress.
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