C. E. 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. "Here's a cross-bite. Norris. But once he had steered the lady down the hall and along a passage to a window seat at the end, he abandoned the subject of society. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. ’ His brows rose. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out.
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