To simplify matters, he carried a coloured paper lantern upon which his license number was painted in Arabic numerals. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Let me make your future for you. But recently he had asked God to pile it all on him; and God had added this, with a fresh portion for Ruth. “David Courtlaw!” she repeated. “Of course,” he ventured, “I could try for more at the ‘Alhambra.
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