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. "Your sympathy is being wasted. "I must tell you," she was saying. Time after time he reminded her of how powerless she would be without him, how unkind the world was towards single women. It was his turn to express astonishment. ‘It must have been so, Melusine, or I wouldn’t have kissed you. ” She laughed. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. The land about these walls is a common graveyard. He reminds me of a slave I once had in Rome with those sullen dark eyes and that wistful pout. “Mike, that’s not even remotely funny.
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