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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 are, Sir," thundered Jonathan; "and, unless you find him, you shan't hold your place a week. I am fairly well hardened in iniquity—your iniquity, Annabel—but I decline to have a husband thrust upon me. On the contrary, he was a universal favourite, and numbered amongst his intimate acquaintances the choicest spirits of the time,—Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, and "all the better brothers. What a pig she was. Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you’ve jammed it now. But the Yale spirit!" Ah Cum laughed.
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