She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. 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. “Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. " "And partly what else?" "I shall never tell anybody that. Perhaps it had been pick-pocketed or jostled from her dress in a hunt. I thank God for the beauty you love and the faults you love. Here, it might be anything at all. He came as an agreeable diversion from an insoluble perplexity. And if you’ve any notion—’ ‘Yes, it is upstairs,’ Melusine agreed, crossing to the library door.
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