Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. 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. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. One of the most barbarous murders ever committed has just been perpetrated by the monster Wild.
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