Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. ’ It was the Press who forced the identity upon me. He was looking pale and ill. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. Jonathan nodded assent. "Forgive me—oh, forgive me!" "Forgive you—bless you!" she gasped. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. . Confidence in himself would strengthen him.
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