He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be called, a flattened nose, and a brown, leathernlooking hide, that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of tanning. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. " "What should I tempt you to?" asked Blueskin, in surprise.
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