I’m damaged goods. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. Even the chattering monkeys, parrots, and parrakeets departed the fruit groves for the smelly dark of the jungle. . ” “It is for your good—your good only I am thinking,” he declared. . “It makes me feel,” he said, “that nothing is impossible—to have you here beside me.
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