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. His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit. I’m going to that stupid party at the Vorsack’s to get to the bottom of it. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners.
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