“It is possible, mademoiselle,” he said, “that this affair is not yet ended. Where the devil have you hidden all those weapons? Don’t tell me you’ve got ’em with you. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. " "Pshaw!" said Wild.
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