Well, kill me. 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 could think of nothing more to say. He saw that she was tense. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. Further on, there were impressions of bloody footsteps along the floor. Do I blow off the head of a man with whom I am in love?’ ‘That,’ said Gerald, disengaging his hand and at last drawing her into his arms, ‘deserves a reward. His face fell.
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