“If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. 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. She did not want to go to the doctor's people; however kindly that might be, they would be only curious strangers. ” “You—you did what?” Anna exclaimed. His sister followed.
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