It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. Tears flowed in rivulets down 121 her cheeks and she began to cry. 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. Voices floated down, but there was no sound of pursuit.
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