The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. It was for ever. " "Would you like to have me come in and talk?" How tender that sounded!—talk! "If you want to.
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