“I should like you to come here,” she said. She let him take off her skirt as she ritualistically removed his jeans along with his boxers. 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. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. She was radiant. I didn't understand then, but I do now.
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