"O lud! what an exquisite box!" cried Edgeworth Bess. Only a book detective could dope this out. I think we rest here until to-morrow?” There was a brief silence. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. But when she reached the pavement outside her teeth were clenched, and she carried herself unconsciously an inch or so higher.
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