Her heavy pistol came up again, although she did not rise. He talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. He was well mounted, as was his companion; and had pistols in his holsters, and a hanger at his girdle. ‘I trust you were not altogether disgusted when I kissed you. 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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