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. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him. She was as fair as the lily of the lotus. ‘Still more would I be so if he had come himself to tell me this. My friend, I am only grieved that you of all others should have been so deceived. “It does nothing but sit there. and those two beggars laughing as they breasted death! Girl, you've gone and done it!" He leaned down and caught her by the hand, and then raced with her to the bungalow. Nothing has gone wrong here?" "Nothing whatever," replied Ireton.
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