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. At last she was roused. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. He yelled but he had no breath to support his own voice. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. "Perhaps that would have been best.
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