Chapter IX BRENDON’S LUCK Anna sat in a chair in her room and sighed. “I was surprised, I admit,” he said. 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's not to be thought of,' says I, thumping the table till every glass on it jingled; 'and I know a way as'll prevent it.
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