‘Here she is. Your poor cheeks are quite sunken and hollow. I have broken from prison, and am come to save you. Now it is—’ ‘What are you doing still here, missie, that’s what I’d like to know?’ demanded the man Trodger, sticking to his guns. 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 see, Melusine, that none of our visitors were as informed as they would wish to be. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. When she looked into their eyes, her despair put her beyond tears.
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