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The condition of the rooms was indescribably filthy and disgusting; nor were the habits of the occupants much more cleanly. The aunt rushed over to her nephew, knelt and wrapped him in her arms. 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. Some indeed carried themselves, dressed themselves even, rather as foreign visitors from the land of “Looking Backward” and “News from Nowhere” than as the indigenous Londoners they were. For all that, it is folly. She had killed him. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. ‘You don’t know him.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 27-09-2024 21:36:30