Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. ‘You see,’ he pursued blandly, ‘I lead a life of the most intolerable boredom. She had denied it with vigor, and here she was! She did not so much exhaust this general question as pass from it to her insoluble individual problem again: “What am I to do?” She wanted first of all to fling the forty pounds back into Ramage’s face. ***** Spurlock possessed that extraordinary condition of the mind which is called New England conscience. ” “I like the mystical way,” she said. Why not? Were not his own sentiments inclined in favour of the patient? But fifty gold was fifty gold. It's my way when I'm ruffled.
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