"I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused. 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. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. "But, I should think, after the specimen you've just given of your amiable disposition, no person would be likely to saddle himself with such an incumbrance. ‘Hilary is a darling. She had expected a love story; and love was totally absent. " "Yes, there was one," observed Ireton.
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