He had removed his silk hat, and now sat looking at Ann Veronica over an untouched cup of tea; he sat gloating upon her, trying to catch her eye. Considering his convictions he felt that his remark was a generous one. Gold-handled, too. 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 tried to raise an outcry, but his throat was again forcibly griped by Rowland. She herself had cut the slender tie that had bound them.
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