At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring. 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. I want to give myself to you. It is in vain to struggle against the arm of fate. She broke a cobblestone over his head and he was out.
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