Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill. We fetched the doctor and the police. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. Tombs were desecrated, beautiful statues toppled, and the colorful shops that she had been enchanted by along the canal had been closed or burned. It’s just like your Splendid Pride to do it. Sir Rowland, who had continued absorbed in thought, with his eyes fixed upon the sloop, as she made her way slowly down the river, disembarked more leisurely. She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love.
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