Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. 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. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. The times were such that, with the opinions he entertained, he could not remain idle. I really cannot have anything to do with Mr.
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