She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. "My demeanour ought to convince you that I came with no hostile intention. “Can you not understand? It is of no use your taking my identity and all the burden of my iniquities upon your dear shoulders if I am to be recognized the moment I show my face in London. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. He should never sufficiently be able to regret the return which they had made to her. All at once her heart began to patter queerly. It did seem germane to the matter that so many of the people “in the van” were plain people, or faded people, or tired-looking people.
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