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. “If I am,” he answered, reddening, “you can scarcely assert that it is without a cause. It had a tiny flaw, most bizarre. . “I can’t endure it,” she said. Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. Mere formality. "She has flown up stairs," replied the widow.
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