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. ‘Never mind that now. ’ ‘She again?’ enquired his hostess, her delicate brows rising ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. To wait for hours and hours for the night! The sea empty for days! You forgot the monotony, the endless monotony, that bends you and breaks you and crushes you—you forgot that!" Her voice had steadily risen until it was charged with passionate anger. This—this shatters a world!” She tried to feel sorry, but her sense of his immense egotism was strong and clear. “Often,” he repeated, a little heavily. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect.
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