It was the girl. ‘Don’t put me at the necessity of marrying the abominable little wretch. All that was needed to complete the simile was that the girl should burst into song. But on this matter my mind is quite made up. He filled her glass with champagne. Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. He then made off. Jarvis did not leave a will. 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.
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