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. She even touched lightly on her father’s unreasonableness. “That’s what we narcs have to do. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it.
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