Efforts were made to staunch his wounds and surgical assistance sent for. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Charcoal, you may bring in the boy. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. She got out of bed, her eyes still half-closed, and stood slack jawed. For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use, And the choicest of wine is my colour; And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues The fuller I fill it—the fuller! IV. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. Her sleepless night had left her languid but not stupefied, and for an hour or so the work distracted her altogether from her troubles. He removed his cigarette from his lips and waved it gently in the air.
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