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. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. "What the devil are you howling about?" cried Langley. It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities. " "That's but a short distance from here, sir. “I am so sorry. Perhaps marriage hurt. Let me run you for six months.
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