The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. He looked like an animated skeleton that someone had hung a smelly 105 brown beard upon. “And, after all, I am just one common person!” She watched the throb of the arteries in the stem of her neck, and put her hand at last gently and almost timidly to where her heart beat beneath her breast.
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