The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. If I can’t talk anywhere else—I DO want an understanding. Certainly not a gentlewoman. “Let me hasten,” she said, “to reassure you. ’ Total bullshit, if you ask me. " The stranger smiled incredulously. " "The woman I mean did not join the assault," rejoined the Master, "but rather seemed to shun observation; and, from the hasty glimpse I caught of her, she appeared to have a child in her arms. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. At any cost! Her brothers had it practically—at least they had it far more than it seemed likely she would unless she exerted herself with quite exceptional vigor. His mind was busy with a résumé of yesterday's unusual events. Part of his head was swathed in linen bandages. “Lucy, my brother is home and I borrowed the cash from him. "Well?" he whispered.
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