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. Seldom they molested a woman who appeared to know where she was going and who kept her glance resolutely to the fore. Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. Coolly and gingerly, she kissed it as it stood at its hard angle from his body.
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