Even to my own brother—if I had one—I could not tell everything, and you, although you are so kind, you are almost a stranger, aren’t you?” “No, no!” he protested. ’ ‘But what of justice?’ asked Lucilla, evidently dazed. Do have some tea, won’t you? If you must, go then. . 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. “A ballot-box, you know,” he said, “is very largely just a box.
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