"To-morrow night!" said Spurlock, in a wondering whisper. I too, Anna, have watched and read of your success with—I must confess it—some misgiving. ‘That is settled then. 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. His throat filled; he wanted to weep. His quiet, kindly smile implied his serene disbelief in any confessible thing.
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