Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. “Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me. Annabel watched her with wide-open, terrified eyes. I'll go with you. I didn't mean it. She was very satisfied about this. 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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