Jack's body was caught, and passed from hand to hand over a thousand heads, till it was far from the fatal tree. "The poor young man!" she 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. “Afterwards it seems to me that there are no limits to what one may not do amongst one’s own set. The windows of these rooms were obscured with draperies, their floors a carpet patchwork; the china ornaments on their mantels were of a class apart. Hang the wench! Roding was right.
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