All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might. ’ ‘I have no game. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. . 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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