He was speechless. " "To-morrow will be too late," replied the widow, in a hollow voice, "I feel it will. That—that isn’t living! You are beside yourself. 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. He disappeared into its thick doors like a magician’s rabbit. . " "It is too late," returned Jack, sullenly; "I can't be honest if I would. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face.
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