“Lift up one corner of the curtain for me. It gave her great satisfaction to hear that Madame Chamberlain had spent a night in the county jail, even if the nocturnal activities picked right up again after two weeks. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. I should only disappoint you terribly some day. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. “I suppose you know I like you tremendously?” he pursued.
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