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. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed the faculties. Ennison slightly——” There was a dead silence in the little room.
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