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. ” They passed a man who stared at them curiously. Still, her face never betrayed this distraction. \"Some of them don't smell so good. ” Annabel had been lying curled up on the lounge, the personification of graceful animal ease. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. My father thought the latter.
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