Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. There is worse to come. You see, my riddle is solved. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. She must learn wisdom—as God pleases. Annabel is my only sister, you know, almost my only relative. The lips of the mask twisted upward into a smile.
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