It was a mass of knick-knacks. "Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. 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. Sebastianus began performing Marina’s last rites.
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