Ennison listened, and his eyes glowed. 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 had lost it. "God in Heaven!" he cried, "the floor is covered with blood. You’re of age— you’re of age. The fates are never so kind to me.
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