He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. Madame shrugged. Surely Capes was different. "What ho!" he cried slapping Smith, who had fallen asleep with the brandybottle in his grasp, upon the shoulder. I know. 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.
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