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. "We never suffer him to mention Mr. . Jackson’s. All this— the island and its affairs—was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's eyes, as in the future she would see all things. " "More blood! more blood!" cried Trenchard, passing his hand with agony across his brow. There stood John and Mr.
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