Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. I might utter a million, and still I doubt if I could make you understand. “I think that I know very well what I am saying,” she answered. Entering London, he bent his way towards the west-end; and having some knowledge of a secondhand tailor's shop in Rupert Street, proceeded thither, and looked out a handsome suit of mourning, with a sword, cloak, and hat, and demanded the price.
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