’ ‘Lord, man, it’s only a scratch!’ Suddenly Gerald snapped his fingers. 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. How dreary it all looks. Every article in the trunk was fully known to her, through a recounting of the list by the doctor. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. Above her head was an aura of white fire.
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