Believe me, Anna. 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. Sensitive, aren’t they?” She chuckled. ‘Is there a resemblance?’ ‘This is Mary Remenham?’ ‘That is my late niece, yes. He's as savage and suspicious as the devil himself.
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