By a sort of instinct. I'll cable to-night, and in a few days we'll have some news. It is for that reason that this novel begins with her there, and neither earlier nor later, for it is the history of this crisis and its consequences that this novel has to tell. She was no longer there. She then dried her eyes, and laying her child gently upon the floor, knelt down beside him. Sheppard, sinking backwards upon the pallet. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love.
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