Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Part 4 But presently, as she sat on the one antimacassared red silk chair and surveyed her hold-all and bag in that tidy, rather vacant, and dehumanized apartment, with its empty wardrobe and desert toilet-table and pictureless walls and stereotyped furnishings, a sudden blankness came upon her as though she didn’t matter, and had been thrust away into this impersonal corner, she and her gear. "Go on first with the light," he said. ’ He regarded her thoughtfully.
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