Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. This person was speedily followed by half a dozen others, some of whom carried flambeaux. I know now that I was mistaken. She flung aside every plan she had in life, every discretion. He might miss at this distance. And yet, she would be easy prey in her present state of mind to any plausible, attractive scoundrel. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. ” “But I didn’t lose it that way, did I?” She grew hysterical. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. They were exquisite. “It makes me feel,” he said, “that nothing is impossible—to have you here beside me. There was a stain of wine upon her dress. I do not intend to be married, or to become engaged just at present. Another car followed, a rusty Cadillac sedan full of kids.
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