Papa has sent me to be religieuse. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. I want to give myself to you. ” She glanced out of the window, and the distant trees were a froth of hard spring green and almond blossom. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Then she took her sister’s hand.
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