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. Things got hot and heavy in the car the next night, and he peeled off her skirt and top to reveal her underwear. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. She kept her face downcast. “I do not know whether to wish you success or not. We dressed it in a little music. Gerald doubted there would be many eager suitors, even assuming the comtesse was keen to marry off her daughter to a foreign protestant.
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