Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house. 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. . "I shall do no such thing.
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