Imagine her, putting herself to all this delay and inconvenience for a young wastrel she did not know and who, the moment he got on his feet, would doubtless pass out of her life without so much as Thank you! And it was ten to one that she would not comprehend the ingratitude. I guess those books are okay because they are fiction. The light!—the light!" Astounded at his cries, Thames sprang towards him. He saw what he had done only as it related to Ruth. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. ‘Here we go again. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. The small Diedermayer clan was a captive audience.
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