‘If you love me, you will say it, or else I will blow off your head. 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 world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. ‘I do not understand you. You have told me that you cared. "Do you hear that! We are not wholly at fault. .
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