Not these twenty year. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun. 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. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. . Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled or tasted it.
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