The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen. There were mysterious rustlings that made him glance hopefully toward the sea. Where else could she go?’ ‘And there aren’t too many of them around,’ agreed Hilary on a gloomy note. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. 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. She turned quickly.
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