Had she expected to wed Valade herself? Had the fellow broken a vow of betrothal, or abandoned her? He must find out more. Let—it—fall. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. 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.
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