"Yes, your son, Madam. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. 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. Ramage!” she cried, and struggled to her feet. The girl wished that she had come afoot, despite the knowledge that she would have suffered many inconveniences, accidental and intentional jostling, insolence and ribald jest. Nevertheless she withdrew her hand. That might happen on her birthday—in August.
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