But that was all over. CHAPTER XXI McClintock's island was twelve miles long and eight miles wide, with the shape of an oyster. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. ‘I told her you couldn’t have been flirting, but she wouldn’t believe me. And so bitterly did the carpenter reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all risks, to go back in search of it. She could no longer wait.
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