He had kissed his wife on the mouth … and had been horrified! There was real madness somewhere along this road. "I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink. Wiped out, but for these. " So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. 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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