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. ‘What do you mean?’ Gerald grinned. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. Glancing at the finger-post over the cage, which has been described as situated at the outskirts of the village, and seeing no directions to Dollis Hill, he made fresh inquiries as to where it lay, from an elderly man, who was standing with another countryman near the little prison. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother.
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