" "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. Shari squealed, clutching her towel around her. With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own. She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. Play fair with her. .
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