She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible faintness all the time hovered about her. The moment he was out in the hall, Ruth sat up hugging and rocking her body in delight. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. "Suppose he does. ’ ‘Indeed?’ Gerald said politely. "Is it by lettin' you go, my darlin', that I'm to airn it?" inquired Terence.
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