‘Scream and you are dead,’ he snapped, and released her mouth so that he might open the door. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. Her two new friends did their best to entertain her.
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