The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. “Do not be frightened, dear,” she said. ” For a time she sat on a rail before leaving the road for the downland turf. 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. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph.
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