“We don’t pretend. ’ He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and brought out a packet of papers. The operation was effected with so much rapidity and so little noise, that even if any one had been on the alert, he could scarcely have detected it. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Her anger parlayed with her confusion, as she realized that the new marriage was about as optional as the first one and her hunger was growing inside her like a weed. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. He will let you live if it pleases him.
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