’ ‘With ease, mademoiselle,’ he countered, catching her blade. When he was concentrating, deep shadows formed under his gray eyes. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. And by degrees, perhaps, that maiden distrust of yours that makes you shrink from my kisses, will vanish. Chapter Seven ‘Oh, my God,’ burst from Gerald. She mentally resolved to do her best to avoid personal encounters with him in that instant. The race began once more; but this time Ruth knew that there would be no escape. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. He had only been prevented, indeed, by a fear of Mrs.
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