It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. Gerald sighed. ‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in. 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. All your faults are just jolly modelling to make you real and solid. Go, and let him in.
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