He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. 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. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. ’ ‘Take care,’ warned Hilary, his eyes on his improvised bandage. Her father had smiles ready for her, he seemed to be truly happy with her for the first time since her infancy.
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