For an instant, Gerald wished the rest of the world away that he might go to her and administer appropriate comfort. I will no longer be a burthen to those upon whom I have no claim, but compassion. Ms. I am clear I want you. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her. I knew it.
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