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. “And to-night we are friends?” “We are friends,” said Ann Veronica, and drew her hand quickly away from him. "Have a little patience, Sir," rejoined the jailer. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. “There is no doubt whatever about that. On the whole, I think that I have been disappointed with the life here.
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