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. "Utterly," reiterated Jack, gloomily,—"as regards all I hold dear. It was nearly one o’clock; but there were lights still in all her windows. Think if your own mother was alive!” He paused, deeply moved. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might.
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