I will not be sent away. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Through no fault of her own. Bowing to the stranger, the woollen-draper very politely requested to know his business. Neither of them joined in the applause which followed upon her exit. There was a lot of that, John, a great deal of hunger. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases.
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