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The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. 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. “John,” she said, “I am afraid that I am going to make you unhappy. He went in there, and he was in there for a good half hour.
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