He got up. 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. CHAPTER XXIII. I was his wife. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. She was nude and horribly maimed. She would meet him upon this ground: he should never be given the slightest hint that she was unhappy. She relented out of exhaustion, yet he would not let her near Marina, his embrace tightening. Solomon Smith, chapmen, (or what in modern vulgar parlance would be termed bagmen) travelling to procure orders for the house of an eminent cloth manufacturer in Manchester.
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