Her wings were oddly weak, but for all that she could fly. Someone, it appeared, was trying to profit from that fact. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded. She listened with dumb fear in her eyes. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. Not choosing to hazard so great a fall, Jack turned to examine the building, to see whether any more favourable point of descent presented itself, but could discover nothing but steep walls, without a single available projection. Joyous, she felt the need of physical expression; and her body began to sway sinuously, to glide and turn and twist about the room. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. The patient fell into a natural and refreshing sleep.
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