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. "Ah! now we come to business," returned Jonathan, rubbing his hands, gleefully. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. “You’ll get me to allude to it, but you’d have to torture me to admit it.
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