Every care had been taken of it, as well as of himself, by the humane inmates of the house in which he had sought shelter. Come, mon ami, come!’ Ever faithful, Kimble dragged himself into a sitting position, gasping at the pain this caused him. 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. “I’ve gotta go.
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