Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. . ‘And me, I am a lady.
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