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. “Now she’s all hat and ideas,” he said, with an air of humor. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. White, who held out her hand and beamed a welcome upon him. Melusine sighed with frustration.
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