“Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. 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. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. "I haven't any answer for that; but I'm going back after her. "We mustn't disturb the patient. I shall find him yet.
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