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. Her husband quickly joined the fray, making her giggle and laugh. Man's fate is in his own hands. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. 47, straightening her hat and waiting for her luggage to appear.
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