The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. “What can I do?” “Go and see her. " The doctor was forced to admit the truth of this. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. “You should quit.
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