I struck him across the face, jumped out and went back by train to Paris. After he was gone in the morning, Ruth would steal into the study and hurriedly read what he had written the previous night. I have given up painting. He wouldn’t like it if people did it to him. I have strength enough to drag myself there, and I do not want to return. He is an awfully good sort— and now he has come to me to help him if I can. "'Sdeath!" cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. Her fingers closed upon it instinctively. "I knew him at once.
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