\" Lucy obliged her, walking back to the entryway and slipping off the loafers. "Weep on, reprobate," cried the carpenter, a little softened. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. ‘I doubt very much whether they are yours at all. But that is men all over. There is turmoil, shouts, cries, jostlings, milling congestions that suddenly break and flow in opposite directions.
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