“Why should it matter?” he said. 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. Shortly to be executed. The bungalows and stores were built of heavy bamboo and gum-wood; sprawly, one-storied affairs; for the typhoon was no stranger in these waters. This man was her husband in the eyes of both God and man. “I think,” he said, “that some one ought to warn her. “It’s bound to be all right,” she said. Do not be a fool, Jacques.
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