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. Hold your hand for a moment. And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel. Fly! fly!" "Do not think of me, mother, but of yourself," cried Jack, in an agony of tears.
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