"Where?" "That can wait," she answered. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. 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. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. "Perhaps that would have been best. ” He was arrested for a moment by an indistinct picture of Veronica reading this last sentence. I'll see her myself; and that's more than she bargained for, I'll be sworn.
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