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. “You have been very kind to me,” she said. They are more base then the animals and cannot be suffered to live, do you understand?” She nodded. That's my maxim; and it's the maxim of every honest man. "Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. There is no poison that would affect her. “And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all.
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