"Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. Never mind. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. The day was so darkly overcast that she had to turn on the small white porcelain lamp that sat upon the makeup crowded vanity. 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. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. Just this? Parbleu, did he think this was enough? She did not wish to marry him—at least, not just because he was an Englishman. "He would return my letters unopened or destroy them. The burden of decision had been transferred.
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