Her stifled misery had betrayed her. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. ‘Me also I do not recall them. She rose at once with a little exclamation, half of surprise, half of pleasure. He looked about for his hat, and put it on. It was a moment of breathless interest to all engaged in the attempt. CHAPTER XVI.
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