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. . The hurricane had now reached its climax. “Why?” “I still love you. She reminded him of his linnet, when he gave the bird the freedom of the house: it became filled with a wild gaiety which bordered on madness. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. "Will you be mine!" "It's a very unfair advantage to take—very," replied Mrs. I am totally like this on my own.
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