There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. She dreaded leaving him for the night, but separated herself finally. 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. In any case, he is liable to discover it at any time. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality.
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