There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes. Once more he begged; but as Ruth only repeated her sharp command, he spun about and raced toward the jungle. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. " "Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. "Hear me, Jack!" shrieked his mother. “It sounds too ridiculous. So he's come around, then? That's fine. ” “Oh, Drummond’s dinner!” she repeated.
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