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. She wondered what the problem was, why the buildup? She wanted to go to his apartment that evening but stayed herself. ‘I fear you mistake, Emile. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. " So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. ’ ‘Yes, but they did do so. ” “And the second?” “Make love to a single woman. . ‘Is she the Frenchie we’ve been watching for then, sir?’ The lady’s furious features turned on this new target. "At all events, I've not done with you. Every one has to make a deal with the world. At any rate, he began to deliberately personate him. Pah! What a pig is this générale.
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