She was feeling extraordinarily well that night, so that the sense of her body was a deep delight, a realization of a gentle warmth and strength and elastic firmness. “Yes,” she answered, looking away. Every other wall comprised bookcases, except where the doors appeared. But it seemed that their presence was not even suspected. He upset some one —probably Mr. 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. That was life.
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