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. Spurling, half aside. He had heard this talk before. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. Fearful that she had given herself away, she sank back down onto her stool. “Then why go out with him, Michelle? Why belabor yourself?” Lucy questioned. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor.
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