I suppose you have come to see your granddaughter. I want to get away—to go to London. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. "Why didn't you come out when I called you, you young dog?" cried Quilt in a savage tone.
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