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. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. " "May be not," replied the old sailor, drily; "but you'll find it too stiff for you tonight, anyhow. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. “Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. But she did not in the least want to do that.
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