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. . " With no little effort—for the right words had a way of tumbling back out of reach—he marshalled his phrases, and as he uttered them, closed his eyes to lessen the possibility of a break. " "Didn't the natives have a name for you?" She blushed. Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something.
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