This man’s name is Montague Hill. 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. Of all the entirely English women I know, you’re the only one with a French accent. But I had to know for sure. " "I imagine I've been in a kind of trance. " "I have promised. I shan't let you off a farthing. “I will take my chance. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. ” “Let us say that Café Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at half-past seven then,” he decided. Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance.
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