“How ridiculous! Fancy you with all that money! For heaven’s sake, though, do not go about playing the Don Quixote like this. He would always be her friend, too. ‘—without telling her why,’ he finished, ignoring the interjection. I was the last on board. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. 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. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow.
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