Kneebone began to dispense the fragrant fluid; begging Mrs. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. 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. Creeping stealthily up stairs, unmasking a dark lantern, and glancing into each room as he passed, he was startled in one of them by the appearance of Mrs. . He went more easily this time.
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