Brown broke the silence. His eyes were small and grey; as far apart and as sly-looking as those of a fox. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. I should feel that I had been obliged to find some one else to fight my battles for me. This gloom was impossible. “Sort of man who can see no further than his nose,” he remarked contemptuously.
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