A delicate flush of colour streamed into her cheeks. It throbs cruelly. Kneebone in a conciliatory tone. 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. That is very certain. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. Or I should say—’ ‘Eugenia,’ cut in Gerald grimly. . You don’t know what you’re saying, and I hope you never will.
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