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. Paul's are his work. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. “Thanks, Mister McCloskey. . ” She looked at him with fluttering eyelids—sweetly grateful. ’ Was there a careful note in her voice? Gerald gave no sign, keeping his own tone light. It is like a second honeymoon. The nurse sent for him as soon as she saw that you were conscious.
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