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. That’s why I chucked Manning. “Your mother was a Gypsy. The man or woman who did something for nothing always excited his suspicions; they were playing some kind of a game. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. She has already forgotten it. She did not resist him, she could not. Lucy had just began to invoke a solace where John was concerned, doing her best to shelve him as not so special after all.
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