“I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. Miss Miniver looked out on the world through large emotional blue eyes that were further magnified by the glasses she wore, and her nose was pinched and pink, and her mouth was whimsically petulant.
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