" Thames Darrell was, indeed, a youth of whom a person of far greater worldly consequence than the worthy carpenter might have been justly proud. 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. ‘It could not be helped, whichever way I made my presence known. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery.
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