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 Wastrel rushed. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. But a doll that rolled its eyes and had flaxen hair! Except for the manual labour—there had been natives to fetch and carry—she and Cosette were sisters in loneliness. " "It was her own fault," observed Blueskin, moodily.
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