’ ‘You ain’t never,’ gasped Pottiswick. ” “Oh, I might,” he answered, “have gone further still. The dress was her mother's, and she was wearing it to save a little extra money. She dissected well, and in a year she found herself chafing at the limitations of the lady B. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. It is the worst of talk under such social circumstances that it is always getting cut off so soon as it is beginning; and I went home that afternoon feeling I had said nothing—literally nothing—of the things I had meant to say to you and that were coursing through my head.
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