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. And then suddenly—a relief. ” “You are sure that he asked for me—not for Annabel?” “Certain,” Courtlaw answered. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. It has.
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