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. Her father had smiles ready for her, he seemed to be truly happy with her for the first time since her infancy. “Umph!” he said, and regarded his letter doubtfully before consigning it to the pillar-box. “Which one?” “The one whose life you have been making a burden, who has been all the time shielding her sister.
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