"What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. But no more of that. She is my only family. How could you draw the curtain aside which hides the great and holy places of life—you, who have never loved?” “You have become French to the core,” she murmured.
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