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. McClintock will have some. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. Spurling. No means were neglected to accomplish this end. ‘Jacques?’ she called. "I don't understand you, gentlemen," stammered he, at length. ” “Far away?” “I have no idea,” Anna answered.
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