She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. The darkness prevented the carpenter from discerning the features or figure of the stranger; and the ceaseless din precluded the possibility of holding any communication by words with him. ‘Troops?’ ‘Go, man,’ urged the major in an undervoice. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. In a voice husky with suppressed despair, she answered.
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