They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. “Who is the tenant of these rooms?” he inquired. I do not admit the truth of a word which you have said. She was not afraid exactly, but there was that about her loneliness to-night she distrusted. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Always her prayers ended—'And may my beautiful mother guide me!' No. ’ Fury was in her face.
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