He sucked at her neck, biting her hard, leaving red marks that disappeared as soon as he made them. ‘I doubt very much whether they are yours at all. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. 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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