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I did not know what I was saying. E. 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. “Well, I have said what I had to say, stumblingly and badly, and baldly. ’ Then all at once remembrance made her smile. I thought then perhaps you didn’t care, that you were like so many of them. He ran back to his car, glancing only once at the man in the car. .

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