But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way. 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. It would hurt no one. But if I painted her as I'd like to, the natives would instantly distrust me; and I'd have to build up confidence all over again.
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