She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. "Is it gold?" "Pure gold," replied Kneebone. Perhaps you’ve heard—?’ Well, you know, he had. And he, her lawful husband, dared not go to her and console her! Accursed—all of them— Enschede, Ruth, and himself. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger.
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