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. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. "It only leads to the fencing crib," replied Wild. ’ ‘Where then is your uniform?’ ‘I don’t wear it to balls. Traps, set with peculiar cunning; she had encountered them everywhere. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself. I could not love you else. “I can only repeat what I said before,” she declared.
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