He turned his back on that temptation. 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. The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute. This is not what I want. “Who are you?” She asked innocently. You seem altogether altered, too.
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