He turned round toward her and found her looking at him and standing very still. “Soon enough, John. D'ye hear. 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 lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. It is a lovely little appendage to the mother who smiles over it, and it does things quaintly like her, gestures with her very gestures. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals.
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