Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. She drew her naked arms around herself. 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.
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