The vast heap of rubbish on the floor had been so materially increased by the bricks and plaster thrown down in his attack upon the wall of the Red Room, that it was with some difficulty he could find the blanket which was almost buried beneath the pile. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. You cannot do a murder and expect that you will not be punished.
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