My heart would speak if it could, for it is very full. I want to but I cannot! Please accept that!” She yelled. 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. White, my landlady, believes his story. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further.
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