No, no! Not now!" Ruth turned abruptly and walked toward the bungalow, mounted the veranda steps, and vanished within. You know very well that you took from my easel David Courtlaw’s study of me, and sent it to Cariolus. 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. Shoving between them, she confronted the captain herself.
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