She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. 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'll be as good as your word, my charmer," whispered the executioner. He was afraid if he stayed that he would make a fool of himself. “For Heaven’s sake, no,” she answered quickly. And the first day, you shall have three morsels of barley bread, without any drink; and the second day, you shall be allowed to drink as much as you can, at three times, of the water that is next to the prisondoor, except running-water, without any bread. He breathed a little sigh of satisfaction.
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