But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. She thought of her costume in some detail and with considerable satisfaction, and particularly of a very jolly property dagger with large glass jewels in the handle, that reposed in a drawer in her room. "She has no secrets from me. I don’t care if you never tell me any of your secrets.
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