He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. ‘At last,’ he cried, ‘I have found you!’ He would listen to nothing. 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.
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