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. And because he knew it was a burden, there was no gaiety upon the doctor's face; neither was there speech on his tongue. If I did not love you en désespoir, I would assuredly blow off your head. I packed so hurriedly that it will take me a long time to find my things.
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