" CHAPTER IX. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. "I suspect our friend has thought better of it, and won't come," he remarked. "Devil!" cried the widow, catching his arm, and gazing with frantic eagerness in his face, "how many years will you give my son before you execute your terrible threat?" "NINE!" answered Jonathan sternly.
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