We mustn’t make it so. “I think this ends the business,” he said, turning to his sister. “No, no,” she cried. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. I don’t care if you’re not a virgin, that’s not how I really am. ’ ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it.
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