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. His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls. He had been the one to dress her in the finest silks and brocades, and here she was, displayed for the world to see in 248 drugstore makeup and the uniform of an old schoolteacher. Capes was rather a discovery. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. . Some day I may forgive you; but not now.
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