She had omitted that the flu had been called the Black Death and that it was a dead child that had been inside that womb, so many hundreds of years ago. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. She cried and sobbed in fits. I had no curiosity of that kind. I should say that having a doubt was enough to condemn it. But they did not know how good she was, how perfect she was. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love.
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