Her father’s step quickened to a trot. I am sorry that I do not know any one in London. Some had the dignity and the aloofness of a rock in the sea; and others were as the polished pebbles on the sands—one saw the difference of pebble from pebble only by close scrutiny. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Consternation gripped him.
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