In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. 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. This amazing world she had set forth to discover! Yesterday at this time she had had no thought in her head about Canton. . There was a discreet knocking at the door, and Ramage’s face changed.
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