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“I know nothing about your wife. "How are you off there, Shoplatch?" inquired Kneebone. Wood. 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. “You see,” he said, “you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour.
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