With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. 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. "Do you know this picture?" he added, with another significant look, and pointing to the miniature. “Now, there, there. “I thought you weren’t getting along so well with your mother these days. At the same time she was wildly exultant at the resolution she had taken, the end she had made to her blunder.
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