“Well?” she said. . Earles drew out his cheque book. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. Kneebone and his friends would be glad of a little refreshment. One would say she could try to —to prevent that her daughter will go to the convent. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. She had not anticipated such a response from her classmates, but knew to be drawing them with her self-consciousness as if they were bees to pollen. I haven’t taken much account of it until now. 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 hate what I have to do to survive.
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