Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. They are very good people, you know. When younger, and in better health, she must have been eminently lovely; and there were still the remains of great beauty about her. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up.
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