E. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. " Still the voice was without emotion; calm, colourless. It was everyone's favorite meal. 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. ’ Upon which, she darted through the library door, galvanising both the sergeant and his two militiamen into action. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace.
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