“How can you change people’s ideas if you have no power?” said Kitty Brett. As though accidentally she swept her skirts from a chair close drawn to her own. . 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. Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. “Just like old times,” she thought sardonically. Instead, they appeared to be at the hygienic level of tramps’ lodging-houses. Even though the individual faces of her audience were not to be singled out, she had been conscious from the first moment of her appearance that something was wrong. Good looks, with a melancholy cast, always drew sentimental females.
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