"I'm going back for Ruth. The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. We WERE thieves. 144 I think he heard about the backpack and the spitballs finally. 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. "What good would it do you to destroy me? For I have courage to kill myself.
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