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. ‘She won’t confide in you? Now, why?’ ‘Because that scoundrel Leonardo drummed it into her head that no man was to be trusted,’ Gerald announced viciously. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. She listened with dumb fear in her eyes. “It is so difficult,” she murmured, “so impossible to explain. ” “It is ironic that you say that, John, for it is I who am afraid of you. Wood, I command you not to stir," vociferated the carpenter's better-half; "recollect you'll be answerable to me. “Have you dropped from the skies?” Sydney asked wonderingly. ‘That is why I have come to England, you understand.
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