At any rate, he began to deliberately personate him. shouldn’t be friends. 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. ’ The lashes fluttered demurely. Oh, and only look at those stains,’ cried Miss Froxfield, gesturing at the blood on the ruffles to the sleeves of Melusine’s riding-habit, and on the chemise she wore under it. Jack hastily retreated, and taking the first means of concealment that occurred to him, descended the cellar steps. He waited for hours after dusk but she never arrived. It was also cold, and dark, for there had been no time to light the lantern. There was a little pain, but it wasn’t anything.
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