A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. 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. "Because she's a fire-opal, and to the world at large they bring bad luck. ’—he’s frightfully anti-Mendelian—having it all their own way.
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