It was his particular hobby, and the leisure he had to apply to it had given him a remarkable appraising eye. “Well,” he said at last slowly, “I’ll pay it. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. I wanted it badly. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. I am out of your life forever, never having been in it.
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