Listening attentively, he fancied he heard the breathing of some one near him, and moved cautiously in the opposite direction. " "Won't you go?" cried Jack passionately. . "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. 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 my prisoner, murderer.
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