I undid his coat, and I took it from his pocket. I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer. 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 crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. Canton is all China at night. For was not Gerald a gentleman? An Englishman, whose services any female—excluding her own self so idiote— would be very happy to have.
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