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. You belong to me, and I have waited long enough. Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. “I never wanted to kick any one so much in my life as that second fellow. The pistol fell to the floor. And as a natural consequence, they don’t do so well, and they don’t get on—and so the world doesn’t pay them.
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