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. “I got Sydney’s telegram at ten o’clock, and caught the ten-thirty from the Gare du Nord. ‘Dieu du ciel, but answer me!’ Martha’s eyes were swimming again, and she reached out.
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