That had taken her by surprise, and her tired wits had failed her. They were the same. You see, I’m selfish. The blood will rest on your head. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. 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. As pretty as its owner. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him.
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