Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. You keep on coming truer, after you have seemed to come altogether true. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation.
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