“Miss Pellissier,” he said, “don’t!” “Why not?” she asked, smiling. A piece of old blanket was fastened across her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. “Go on!” “People talked to you in Paris about us,” she continued, “about Anna the virtuous and Annabel the rake. "What is it?" "Can't you see? Together, down there; you and I!… As my wife! Both of us, never to be lonely again!… Will you marry me, Ruth?" As many a wiser woman had done, Ruth mistook thrilling eagerness for love. “But I wanted to see you. ” He stood up with his legs parted in an inverted “V”, puffing up, trying to make himself look bigger. . \"Borrowed a pencil.
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