‘You don’t even know what it means, do you?’ Melusine frowned. He held in his hands many threads. Light flooded the uncarpeted chamber, revealing the decayed state of the place. 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. “What’s odd?” “Oh, everything!” She shivered, and went to the fire and poked it. He smiled.
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