He cherished her. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. “You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. Besides, you cannot tell where it will end. “No lecturing, Anna!” she exclaimed. Anna was unimpressed. The ragged edge. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. " "When will you want me?"—with pitiful eagerness. “He has a stubbly yellow moustache, weak eyes, and great horrid hands.
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