Sheppard, who seemed to be crouching upon the floor. But his own situation was too perilous to admit of his rendering any assistance to the ill-fated waterman. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. 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. \"I don't think so. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. ‘Don’t put me at the necessity of marrying the abominable little wretch.
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