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. . He stood back and held her shoulders. Besides, it did not fit her well, which was why the loose wimple had slipped. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. "And yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me. " "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard.
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