’ ‘Yes, it’s all my fault,’ he agreed soothingly, ‘and you may rail at me presently as much as you please. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. 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. A hansom stopped a little way off. “Oh, John, please!” “You are already leaving me. “Believe me, I know. What does she look like?’ ‘Black hair. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. “I’ll bring it to-morrow.
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