Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. “I say!” he cried. A great bowl of scarlet carnations gleamed from a dark corner, set against the background of a deep brown wall. What you would look upon as immorality is here merely an established custom, three thousand years older than Christianity, accepted with no more ado than that which would accompany you should you become a clerk in a shop. ” “I don’t care.
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