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. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. The noose was at its throat when I called for help. I will have nothing to do with you. ‘I hope I do not understand you. ‘What would you do in Valade’s place?’ ‘You mean, knowing that the girl was here and liable to queer my pitch?’ ‘Precisely. Springing upon the box, he told the coachman to make the best of his way to Saint Giles's. ” “It’s dreadful for you to be here,” he said, indicating the yellow presence of the first fog of the year without, “but your aunt told me something of what had happened. She stepped back quickly, and her hand knocked a wine-glass from the table to smash noisily on the floor. Ruth had lived in a world without caresses. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. I felt somehow I’d hurt you. “We can be alone?” She inquired. I know who hits hardest. “It might be a policeman borrowing the driveway and looking out for speeders.
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