Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders. 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 isn’t a joke,” she said. She did not have the power of men. “Let go!” said Ann Veronica, through her teeth, strenuously inflicting agony, and he cried out sharply and let go and receded a pace.
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