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. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. Day after day she pounded him with curses, saying that her mother looked down on him from Heaven and sent a curse, to which he laughed. Well, one must hope, that was all.
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