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. “Damned Rascal!” he said. “What are your objections?” she said. There is the election——” He laughed derisively. I don’t think you understand. I shall still wear your favor—even if it is a stolen and forbidden favor—in my casque. . The child was still safe. Ramage,” she said, “I can’t—Not now.
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