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Now, he must have folks somewhere. 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. Wait a little; rest. Even the love of a mother does not sway him. The miserable woman staggered, uttered a deep groan, and fell senseless on the straw. Her slender throat was encircled by a black riband, with a small locket attached to it; and upon the top of her head rested a diminutive lace cap. ‘What is it?’ asked Roding. The Well Hole.
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