My nerves were in rags. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. "Is my house to be made a receptacle for all your natural children, Sir? Answer me that. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. "Egad!" exclaimed Wood, "you've hit the right nail on the head, anyhow. 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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