Before her stretched blank spaces, dotted with running people coming toward her, and below them railings and a statue. 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. “No, Lucy, it isn’t fine and I am sorry. ” She shook her head, snapping out of her reverie. After all, he had the means of setting this tormenting doubt at rest. The Palazzo was unlike anything she had ever known.
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