At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. It seemed that within an instant the Pestilence struck, and she begged me on her deathbed to shelter you and her grandson for the rest of your lives, as she could see that even though I was a ‘demon fiend’ and ‘minor devil’ that I loved you. He would provide the necessities of life and protect her. " When the doctor entered the bedroom and looked into the faces of the culprits, he laughed brokenly. He was not a sailor. I don’t know what has come over me. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. But the cases were not identical. Something in his tone pinched her heart. The feeling of last days grew stronger with her as their number diminished.
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