Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. 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. He wondered if, after all, McClintock wasn't nearest the truth, that Ruth was one of those unfortunate yet innocent women who make havoc with the hearts of men. “To the best of my belief, I have not a single English acquaintance in the city.
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