He walked in her direction. It was the very spot from which his poor mother had gazed after her vain attempt to rescue him at the Mint; but, though he was ignorant of this, her image was alone present to him. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom.
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