Jack had thus been six hours in accomplishing his arduous task. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. It cuts. “I wish this hadn’t turned up to-day of all days. 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. He worked afternoons, when everybody else went to sleep; he worked at night under a heat-giving light, with insects buzzing and dropping about, with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that tried to get out and could not. Or at least he did the day before yesterday. He felt her relaxation and let go of her wrists.
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