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There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. “I really had not thought about it at all,” Anna answered smiling. Love is one thing and friendship quite another. 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. "I must tell you," she was saying.

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