On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. "It'll ease your mind. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Melusine—the real Melusine—would never have made such a stupid mistake.
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