It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. ” She gestured to an abandoned farmhouse down a long stretch of icy dirt road.
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