“Some afternoon. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. "Come to me!" cried the poor maniac, who had crawled as far as the chain would permit her,—"come to me!" she cried, extending her thin arm towards him. She felt draggled and insulted beyond redemption. Good-bye aunt.
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