Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. Do help me, Lady Ferringhall. Creeping along quickly on his hands and knees, he found the entrance to a covered drain, into which he crept. Supposing they find you and take you away?—and she unprepared? Have you thought of that? Why did you marry her?" "God alone knows!" "And you don't love her! What kind of a woman do you want, anyhow?"—with rising anger. 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. .
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