I told her it was the end. They bickered frequently now as Gianfrancesco protested the prices of things like funeral candles and poultices to comfort the dying. She was glad when he went on: “I want to be your city of refuge from every sort of bother. Wood,—Winifred fainted in the arms of a female attendant,—and Wood standing beside them almost in a state of distraction. 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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