‘Now then, Gerald, out with it. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. The completest capitulation would not wipe out that trouble.
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