There was a great splash of blood upon it, her hand was all wet and sticky. “Well,” she said, “good-night, father. It’s all nonsense. She loped forward on unnaturally long legs and arms that swung loosely. And yet, at the end of this prayer a subconscious thought broke through to consciousness. 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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