He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love.
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