“It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. Capes saw her, felt for her, cared for her greatly, even if he did not love her. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. " Trenchard took up a pen. " "That likeness is the chief cause of my misery," replied the widow, shuddering.
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