My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock—ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. 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. One who—who—tres. The next moment, a struggle was heard, and Blueskin appeared at the door, followed by Mrs.
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