" "It was her own fault," observed Blueskin, moodily. ‘Nevertheless, you will marry me,’ he snarled. 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. You are the one person I can understand and feel—feel right with. ‘Aye, that she was. The marriage cannot—shall not be delayed. Then we can look out together for such employment—as would be more suitable for you. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch.
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