There was a young lad ahead of her. She observed the tides, amazed by how high the water could rise, almost touching the tops of the cliffs. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. The miserable woman staggered, uttered a deep groan, and fell senseless on the straw. That's the kind, my friend, that always fall soft. Ivy, ormanın derinliklerini ve sırlarını en iyi bilen kişiydi.
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