Her hair was held back in a filigreed barrette. I am almost old enough to be your father. I put my foot down like—like adamant. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion.
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