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 was a couple who disappeared. ‘But this is altogether a chance of the luckiest. It isn’t illusions—for us. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. It wound around a small manufactured lake.
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