As the woollendraper's back was towards him, he did not perceive him, but continued his passionate addresses. Something he saw there made him feel for a moment ashamed. “Why should it matter?” he said. 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. But are we any more free?” “Well?” “I mean we’ve long strings to tether us, but we are bound all the same. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man.
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