Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. CHAPTER XXVII His idea, cleverly planned, was to shatter her resistance, to confound her suddenly by striking her mind with words which would rob her coherent thought. “Nobody understands them, of course, but we all look as though we did. “That young man was giving a luncheon party to a dozen friends at the Café de Paris to-day. I hope you won’t mind if I say first that I think it does me an extraordinary honor that you should think of any one like myself so highly and seriously, and, secondly, that I wish it had not been written. ” He crossed his arms.
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