Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded. Be frank, I beg you, Miss Pellissier. I made the pies. And he unsheathed his sword.
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