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. " "Not before I have conducted your child thither," retorted Jonathan, with a withering look. That had taken her by surprise, and her tired wits had failed her. Turning, she heaved at the bottom door and slammed it in his face just as he came leaping forward to grab her. I hate to see you spoil yourself with guys like me. ‘Read that,’ and threw the telegram at me, so that it went into the tureen. And now let's go back to the Shovels, and finish our brandewyn and bier, Muntmeester.
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