He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters. 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. “No, that’s fine. “No!” he said aloud at last. You've nothing to do but to take possession. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant.
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