That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. I have been in torment all the while to know whether it was to Anna or to Annabel that you were making love so charmingly. “The man is dangerous. In any case, he is liable to discover it at any time.
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