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 refused to sleep in the same room with him one night, kicking him in the shins. I shan't let you off a farthing. “That cannot happen!” She replied, feeling her world start to disintegrate underneath her feet. One puts gloves on one’s greedy fingers.
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