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. It was instantly burst open, when the horrible stench that issued from it convinced them that it must be a receptacle for the murdered victims of the thief-taker. “We are so interested to hear, Miss Pellissier,” she said, “that you have been living in Paris. My father died a year ago, by the way. I cut off her limbs so that she would not escape. They did not spend most days together.
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