Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Ask your own conscience. . Each wing had a small cupola; and, in the centre of the pile rose a larger dome, surmounted by a gilded ball and vane. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair.
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