He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. 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. Melusine cast one swift glance at it, and her eyes, flashing magnificently, came back to his face. “I was half hoping that I might be allowed to see you home.
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