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. Horrible details recurred to her. . “Here, dis is for you. . ’ ‘What heir?’ ‘Exactly. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. She held up the lamp. "Then I presume you've not been arrested?" "I have not," answered Wood firmly. I stubbornly insisted that we wait, and you woke up.
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