The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. “I just wanted you to see that the time will come when I must leave you, and the time is coming soon. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. But he was at last persuaded that I mean you no harm, and that I might—just possibly, since I am both a gentleman and a major of militia—be able to be of more assistance to you than he himself. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love.
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