“I can’t imagine it,” said Miss Miniver. What are you going to tell me?" "Nothing. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. " "And you must have risked much to obtain it, my love. Anna made things for her. I mean to have you! Don’t frown me off now.
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