” It was a tiny little room, daintily furnished, individual in its quaint colouring, and the masses of perfumed flowers set in strange and unexpected places. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. I speak no harm of her. "In this pit," he added, pointing to the chasm below, "your brother is buried. She had set out to get a beautiful life, a free, untrammelled life, self-development, without counting the cost either for herself or others. I wanted John to be proud to be seen with me. I took the money myself, and ought to know.
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