In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. I have suffered—I have sinned—I have repented. For a time they were very difficult. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. I’m sorry. 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. ’ ‘Gammon!’ burst from the captain, who had just tossed off a glass of Madeira. Jack was completely overcome.
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