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 love some one else. She will tell you all the story while I am gone. “When one wants a thing more than anything else in the world,” she said with outrageous frankness, “one naturally wishes one had it. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness.
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