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. “Mary Lucia. "Alone?" "Not exactly, Sir. "But you are tired!" "I want to go over the story again. "Why you pretended not to recognize the photograph of the young fellow you toted around these diggings all day yesterday. ‘The truth is, Everett,’ she said brightly, limping up to the general and tucking a hand in his arm, ‘that the girl is you all over again.
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