Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. "I've made no distinction between you, hitherto," answered Wood; "nor shall I do so, unless I'm compelled. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. When younger, and in better health, she must have been eminently lovely; and there were still the remains of great beauty about her. “This is wonderful! I’ve been feeling that you had vanished from my world. But you belong to me—and I want you.
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