The atmosphere was 46 strained and deathly quiet at the dining room table. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. \" She was never hungry for human food. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. All this was the work of a minute. ‘Hollow.
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